Thursday

Be mine



And winter begins.

A deep layer of ice on the pond.  A group of tom turkeys browse the sunned hillsides.  The day is bright.  Entirely too bright for the news from Paris.

The leaves of rhododendron have curled themselves into cigars.   I have curled myself  into the blank space reserved for the inexplicable.  Once in a while I return from this place with something or other: a poem's line released from sorrow or rage.  Black ink swashing its way into the world or the firm hold of an impudent oilbar intent on saying what it always says:  life, be mine.

Be mine, as insolent as a cat.
Be mine, as faithful as a curled leaf at zero.
Be mine, as free in wild thoughts as Whitman.
Be mine, dancing oh dancing.
Be mine, equally versed in profanity as in sincerity.

Be mine, tenderheart.  Be mine.  Break and mend and break again.  But be mine.