Friday, September 9, 2016
On Damp Mornings Near Detroit
I would love it to death if I were a Raymond Carver poem.
Living among the stands of pines, wild flowers, bears, and bobcats
of the high Cascades, the Olympias...
The Columbia River not far over the distant hills the smell of rain
every morning, even in the dim winter sun,
the hoarfrost riming the black trunks of trees
as snow fallen in the chill night still clings
to each finger branch, tendril of a living life,
waiting to become so green that it can't
be perfectly described in human language
but you attempt to do it anyway because
that is as honest and cold and lovely
as you can muster.
Because that's what you keep living to do, even though the end
might see you driving away from a phone call, a failure, a love
in an old car with the windows rolled up
in relentless rain as the windows steam opaque and white
while somebody tries in vain to talk to you,
your thoughts wandering the pine stands
and the high peaks of Cascadia,
or a dark club in the smokey part of town
drinking a gingerale special after hours.
I would also be about trout. And perhaps Lapis Lazuli.
Something more permanent than all of us left wishing we were poetry.