Monday, September 04, 2006

Spring and all

after WCW

So much is lost in the seasons,
so much slips between
that infinitesimal sliver
of change: cold to hot in an instant,
one night’s sleep that becomes years
stretched out into the waking hours.
Here is where the crumpled red
paint of the barrow crouches
in the aged fist of the barn.
Here is where some old poet
used to walk, noticing everything,
taking note of the simple runnel
of rain that glazed the wood.

Nothing can make this landscape
walk backwards. How would we know,
anyway, which is better: yesterday’s bright
color, today’s comfortable weariness?
If we remember the white chickens
and the rain that slicked everything,
who is to say why the barn, once
shiny and upright with paint
and use, became ordinary,
now slouches into the horizon
like an old and familiar poem?

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim


Plus Ultra said...

Another excellent poem, good for me to start a morning partaking of a feast of verse, the style is so characteristic of you, I am beginning to be able to identify your tone......lovely picture too, did you photograph that?

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

plus ultra, thank you so much for your kind words. I took the photo a few years ago, thank you for asking. :-)

{Minion} said...

don't we tend to see yesterday’s bright colour, even though we are looking at today’s comfortable weariness?....


liked this poem, nice work.

Pat Paulk said...

Great poem Christine, especially loved this line, "one night’s sleep that becomes years stretched out into the waking hours."

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

thanks for stopping by. You are so right. :-)

Thanks for reading. I'm glad you liked it. :-)