Postcard from Here
There’s not much to tell
except that the sweet orange
cherry tomatoes have continued
to spread
their thin skins to transparent
and fill with with fruit,
in defiance of the blight.
Maybe also that the orange
slant of light
that enters this room at
eight
makes me wish for you.
It’s just that it is so improbable,
that glow like sunrise and sunset
and another planet, all at once.
So that if you could find your way across the miles
to just sit with me here for a while,
in defiance of the blight,
that glow like sunrise and sunset
and another planet, all at once.
So that if you could find your way across the miles
to just sit with me here for a while,
in defiance of the blight,
our shared witness might coax it to stay.
This room might find its way
to taut hopefulness again,
might tremble at its edges
knowing its kinship with the slender thread of fall chill
might tremble at its edges
knowing its kinship with the slender thread of fall chill
woven into the late summer
breeze.
Because I mean to follow that
thread
back to the black dirt
or crystalline cloud it came
from,
and ask what it is that compels
the earth
to go dormant,
to end the blight not by
healing the tomatoes,
but by sinking it all in a flood of frost
but by sinking it all in a flood of frost
that spares only what huddles
underground
or builds four walls.
I imagine you here to
sanctify this waiting,
unsure how long it will last,
certain that this eight
o’clock glow will move on
in its journey to the earth’s darker side,
in its journey to the earth’s darker side,
unaware of how much it is still needed here.
