READING WHITMAN AT DUSK
Our fevered mother earth,
so poorly loved and overworked,
on life support yet not quite
middle-aged.
When I was young, I read
you like a Whitman poem,
like a mountain in bloom
with redbud and dogwood,
like the everyday rivers
I waded and fished in.
Now the river’s fished out,
the mountain’s been stripped,
or removed. Pure matricide,
and unforgivable.
Going, going, gone.
Yet should I think I walk alone
in this tender, growing night,
find him under my boot-soles,
the good gray poet says.
I take a furtive peek. Alas,
looks like plain grass to me.
Thanks nonetheless for trying.
My nights are fine, dear poet.
I dream and walk in half-worlds
under the stars and black holes,
where thinking takes a breath.
But my days are all bad news,
awake to my times, astute
beyond hope or wishes.
This is my second blog. Occasionally I’ll include a poem in progress, and this is one of those. JR