Near
Entriken
You
are almost asleep when that whip-poor-will
begins
his serenade outside your window,
the
one he will repeat tonight and each night into autumn.
Last
summer you dubbed his noise suicide song
and
often threatened him with your bedside slingshot.
He
is unexpected, forgotten, yet at once vividly
recalled,
the bold herald of your bedtime.
May
has taken you by surprise.
Short-term
memory finds you tapping trees
and
boiling sap, warming hands and lungs
in
the steamy sugar shed.
There
is no long-term memory.
This
morning you walked to the lake,
tried
again to imagine its absence.
Sometimes
you believe you are the ghost of Jimmy Grove,
evicted
when the dam moved in; at home
on
his land, roaming his woods, sleeping again
in
the house he built on the hill.
Only
love of the water betrays you.
A
whip-poor-will can be heard for miles,
but
this old goatsucker won’t budge
from
the bedroom window. Near Entriken
spring
sleep is as thick as the syrup
and
soon you slip into it, suspended
as
the bird’s sound.
This is absolutely wonderful. I can barely detect the condescending.
ReplyDeleteBut seriously. This is my favourite month so far. You are all amazing.
"unexpected, forgotten, yet at once vividly recalled, ..." This so perfectly describes something I experience all the time, but never thing about trying to articulate.
ReplyDeleteOoooh, I like this so much (and glad the whip-poor-will's suicide song did not become your homicide song).
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis is lovely; I will think upon it for a long time tonight. The best poems are like that, haunting you a little. It feels familiar...did I read it before?
ReplyDeleteYes!
DeleteBeautiful
ReplyDelete