For so long
The afternoon is dying faster
than we expect.
The shadows turn pale blue between
the trees. I see
swirling curlicues of rain
and mist moving
in the low brush.
Fingers of grass and leaves
grasp each other,
kneading the tired
mud beneath them like
a well-worked clay.
Something similar to obsession
runs wild in
this place I find so comforting
and yet so sad. A late season
loneliness
strays—just beyond
my vision, in the darkness that
gathers thick and persistent
in the farthest copse.
We can only
just barely make it
out—the loneliness we have
dreaded all our long lives.
It is waiting for
us, as the almost-
forgotten face of someone
we have longed to see
for so long.
A Perfect Sky
after Muso Soseki
I dug deep
into the earth
for a perfect
sky. The grave
surrounded me
the further
down I went.
Then, one glorious
moment, the shovel
slipped and broke
the fragile skull
of the place
we are all
digging toward
above the sky.
Almost There
The lake reflects
the wrong scenery.
We reach out for it,
almost as we would a star
or a low-lying cloud.
We’re half-way there.
There—
where violets bloom
all through the day.
We’re almost there—
where the oak’s own branches
reach forward
to touch its reflection
just as we might
touch our own.
Light Went
Light went. I saw it go.
A glow moved on the earth—
straight across and pale
as the part in your summer hair.
The sky bit a hole in the trees.
The light loosened and fell over
the path. The sun—
unseen by us—
grew heavy some place
not that far away,
fattening into a healthy
gentleness.
Something like heat happened.
I felt it. Dirt, gray as Lent,
smeared the ground with crosses.
The sun bled. It was
all over my hands.
It left stains on the earth.
Yoga
—for Dawn Morgan
A sacred longing
draws us forward—
not into the shadows
that fall here,
but toward
that yellow sign
and its one dark word—
Y
O
G
A
It invokes us
from our gray weariness
into an awareness
we find comforting
and yet strangely hot—
in a fierce sort of way—
on our faces.
It burns us even,
the way everything
sacred does
when we draw too close.
The afternoon is dying faster
than we expect.
The shadows turn pale blue between
the trees. I see
swirling curlicues of rain
and mist moving
in the low brush.
Fingers of grass and leaves
grasp each other,
kneading the tired
mud beneath them like
a well-worked clay.
Something similar to obsession
runs wild in
this place I find so comforting
and yet so sad. A late season
loneliness
strays—just beyond
my vision, in the darkness that
gathers thick and persistent
in the farthest copse.
We can only
just barely make it
out—the loneliness we have
dreaded all our long lives.
It is waiting for
us, as the almost-
forgotten face of someone
we have longed to see
for so long.
A Perfect Sky
after Muso Soseki
I dug deep
into the earth
for a perfect
sky. The grave
surrounded me
the further
down I went.
Then, one glorious
moment, the shovel
slipped and broke
the fragile skull
of the place
we are all
digging toward
above the sky.
Almost There
The lake reflects
the wrong scenery.
We reach out for it,
almost as we would a star
or a low-lying cloud.
We’re half-way there.
There—
where violets bloom
all through the day.
We’re almost there—
where the oak’s own branches
reach forward
to touch its reflection
just as we might
touch our own.
Light Went
Light went. I saw it go.
A glow moved on the earth—
straight across and pale
as the part in your summer hair.
The sky bit a hole in the trees.
The light loosened and fell over
the path. The sun—
unseen by us—
grew heavy some place
not that far away,
fattening into a healthy
gentleness.
Something like heat happened.
I felt it. Dirt, gray as Lent,
smeared the ground with crosses.
The sun bled. It was
all over my hands.
It left stains on the earth.
Yoga
—for Dawn Morgan
A sacred longing
draws us forward—
not into the shadows
that fall here,
but toward
that yellow sign
and its one dark word—
Y
O
G
A
It invokes us
from our gray weariness
into an awareness
we find comforting
and yet strangely hot—
in a fierce sort of way—
on our faces.
It burns us even,
the way everything
sacred does
when we draw too close.
A bit about me: I am the author of
seven books of poems, including Just
Once, which will be published in
September by Loonfeather Press. I
received my MFA from Vermont
College.
In 2004, I was named Associate Poet
Laureate of North Dakota by current
Poet Laureate Larry Woiwode.
seven books of poems, including Just
Once, which will be published in
September by Loonfeather Press. I
received my MFA from Vermont
College.
In 2004, I was named Associate Poet
Laureate of North Dakota by current
Poet Laureate Larry Woiwode.
Jamie Parsley