Wednesday, December 19, 2012

December \ The Old Woman Refuses

Alan: Like the crows, we forage where we can, find what we can, and await the cold.


still green on the slope
where the sun finds it
despite the hard frosts

The crows
fly agape
each with a jammed-in apple
corking its caw
top-heavy with hunger

We have pawned the jewelry
the guitar and
my best coat

I have opened my hand
to what we have
to get us through:

a few dark seeds
a fleck of red
a little pulp

Nancy: Of course I believe words are magic, especially well chosen words.

The Old Woman Refuses

She won’t hear wind,
she hears the marsh grass singing
   songs, she hears sparrows
   sweet, sweet, sweet

She won’t say ice,
no, she says ephemeral,
ripples, mummichogs

She erases words,
leaves willow green, sap,

If you ask her, “where are the birds?”
she will tell you they flew out
early and far, and are bringing
the sun from the sea

There!  she says, there,
that light on the ledge?

The Sun!

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