The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Saturday

Coastal Plain
By Kathryn Stripling Byer

The only clouds
forming are crow clouds,

the only shade, oaks
bound together in a tangle of oak

limbs that signal the wind
coming, if there is any wind

stroking the flat
fields, the flat

swatch of corn.
Far as anyone’s eye can see, corn’s

dying under the sky
that repeats itself either as sky

or as water
that won’t remain water

for long on the highway: its shimmer
is merely the shimmer

of one more illusion that yields
to our crossing as we ourselves yield

to our lives, to the roots
of our landscape. Pull up the roots

and what do we see but the night
soil of dream, the night

soil of what we call
home. Home that calls

and calls
and calls.


Last laundry isn't folded yet but most of the other chores are done. Kids played with older son's friend Omar, who is leaving for England and then Bangladesh for a month in the morning; I tried to keep my head up, as whatever is going on with my lymph nodes hasn't gone down and I'm tired and stiff and sore and really hoping this is all stress and I'm not coming down with anything. Had dinner with parents, finalized lists of who's bringing what. Half-watched Animal Planet to which the kids got addicted while traveling; this time it was the San Francisco animal patrol and Meerkat Manor.

Something I hope to see lots of in coming days...a laughing gull hanging out in the water.

Saturday on the way east we are stopping at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum in St. Michaels to see the replica of John Smith's shallop. Then it's on to Bethany!

  • Greetings from the Canal

    It rained early in the morning on Friday and again in the afternoon -- the first thunderstorm of the season, which displeased the kittens so much…

  • Poem for Friday and Canal Thursday

    Letter Beginning with Two Lines by Czesław Miłosz By Matthew Olzmann You whom I could not save, Listen to me. Can we agree Kevlar backpacks…

  • Poem for Thursday and McCrillis Flowers

    A Violin at Dusk By Lizette Woodworth Reese Stumble to silence, all you uneasy things, That pack the day with bluster and with fret. For here…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded