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AFTER THE UNVEILING
I threw the first shovelof dirt on your wooden coffin. I expected you to protestthe sullying of the polished wood, or to call out for your mother,or introduce us to your long dead husband,but all we heard was the thunk and chunkof the clayey earth dancing off the cover,while you maintained silence. First published in…
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WHAT IF
Stop and imagine for one momentwhat it would be like if: during hunting seasonthe deer were armed with AR15’sand hunters with a bow and arrow. the mud wasp, docile insectthat you go after with a shovelcomes armed with a can of poison spray the raccoon eating your gardenthat you wanted to trap and takeinto the…
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HAVOC
They took up shovels,pickaxes, bare fingersto pry up the seedlings,the saplings just takingroot and the seedsjust planted still wateredby the sweat and tearsof those who lovinglytilled the brittle soil. They offered nothingin return, barren groundwhere only anger grew,fertilized by fear, byby greed, by blindness. Will we sit by and watchas promises wither underan ever stronger,…
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SNOW
At first it was just oddto think of snow as merelya concept, a memory softer,more pleasant than its reality. You can grow accustomedto concepts, they are generallysomewhat neat and tidy, easilyfiled and brought forth on demand. The concept of snow hasits great advantages, snowmenof perfect shape, never meltingand no one must shovel a concept. But…
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INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY
It is easier to think about deathon a wintery evening, when so muchof life slips into stasis, and there isnothing to do but concede your mortality,and with good fortune, then slipinto sleep before being lostin a sea of depression. I must be thankful for my dreamsfor they keep the night from becomingthe little death of…
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DIG IT
He started digging early in the morning,and hoped that by lunch, he’d be wellon his way there, though he wasn’t certainhow he’d get up out of the holewhen lunch rolled around, but needis a good instructor, so he was surehe could figure it out easily enough.It was slower going than he imagined,slower by several magnitudes.He…
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A WINTER MEDITATION
I have given up on winter, which is to say that I have fled its iron grip, but the memories I have linger painfully in the rods the surgeon carefully screwed onto my spine. It wasn’t the cold, though it was far from pleasant, but the snow that demanded but also defied being shoveled. I…
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STEPSISTERS
Perhaps tonight the slightly waning moon will bathe us in her presence. That presupposes the clouds, so very jealous of late, allow her to appear. They, and the unending winter, are the evil stepsisters, and they have neither justice nor compassion for the moon or for us. And so, to save their maleficent case, I…
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TO A POET, TO THE WEST
Richard Wilbur lives in Massachusetts and in Key West, Florida according to his dust jackets. If you set sail westward from San Diego you may find your dream of China, of the endless wall which draws the stares and wonder more foreboding more forbidden even than the city, which you visit to sate yourself of…
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an old writer and his words 