When the wind died, there was a moment of silence for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a place to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I respected the privacy of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening at the back door to the glossolalia of machines. When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender. When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods. When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines that we know of, still we call.
Friday, January 18, 2013
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Another of the poems from a recent NY Times.
— BOB HICOK, the author of the forthcoming “Elegy Owed,”
Cold (for Boston) here today - 19F a current reading. Will probably venture out at least to the Post Office later today with my lovely shearling coat that I got @ Filene's Basement back in the day. Not a wind in the world gets through that wrap. Oh, & tootling & stitching, too.
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hmmm. this "When the wind died, there was a moment of silence for the wind" and this "When the roses died, I respected the privacy of the vase."
ReplyDeleteIm speechless. thank you for sharing a beautiful poem.