[I started this poem 21 years ago in Berkeley, California, the week before my daughter was born. I finished it tonight, in Irvine, California]
Stackabones
for Claire
"What is it?," you'll ask, and I'll hedge.
Things with no title aren't,
So make a name. Our dreams have no lexicon.
We'll look at wildflowers
In the chapparal and fill the silence
Around the blossoms with a name.
Waiting on you to be,
I try to remember not to forget.
In a dusty corner of my head
I've opened files with Websters of words,
Waiting on you to be.
We'll cover the earth with Venn Diagrams
Of our steps bisecting the old steps.
We'll breach the barricades
And walk circles from here to here.
The wheel itself rolls flat
And you can't slow it down;
With each spin of the ball it grows flatter,
But still rolls up and down the hill.
The list of whom the bucket was kicked by
Grows longer every day
And that bucket fills with tears.
Our job is to stay off that roster.
Back to the story.
God, gets the fire going
As She spins us back into the sun
To warm us up in the morning.
The sun didn't rise today,
But the sun doesn't rise.
The last cricket falls asleep,
And the birds begin their rounds.
Earth rolls over like a dog,
And the light
Floods in.
---o0o---
4 comments:
Very nice poem, Jack, and this gives new meaning to stick-to-it-iveness. Isn't Claire 23?
It's pretty amazing...I found this manuscript a while ago, and decided to try and finish it.
Claire is now 22.
Ah, 22 and soon a graduate. Congrats to all.
I love this Jack. Kee
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