Menu

Poetry

What can the sky say, waiting for the sun,
which may or may not come, the leafless trees,
unless I speak for them, their waiting deep
as tap roots’ cold, suspended burrowing?

I can always write another poem
but I am tired of speaking of the world.
If he wants a spring poem, let the wren
on my windowsill sing it: he’s doing it.

I have to talk about two always here
whenever I am, so I’m not alone.
Why not just say it. One is God, one Death.
From the beginning they’ve been in my house.

Death owns it; he pays the mortgage on time.
Some day he’ll make the last payment, move in.
That’s all there is to Death, no mystery.
Now this question of God. I know he’s here
as certain as I am of gravity
when I go out to search for signs of spring.
My feet squish the still-frozen ground.
I know I’m here by that sound, like a child
I step down on certain earth.
The earth answers: give voice to what I say
even if your poem just says: love Peter.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Pin It on Pinterest