Yesterday, November 25th, would have been my father’s 76th birthday. I’ve drafted this poem in memory of him. His love of leaves and forests, of words and feelings, and his honest appraisal of death has profoundly influenced me. These past few days I’ve walked the woods and noted our mortality and the impermanence of all … More In Memoriam: Aren’t these Leaves Beautiful? For John Dawson Carl Buck
THE HOOK. I turned around to look, Eying the trail for a slick rock, A root. Your eyes reflected in Puddles. Wondering, nervous, if We were in high school. I mean You weren’t asking me out to an arcade —a play land—where kids went to lose Themselves in noise. But can you hear the din … More THE HOOK. A #poem revised again.
HERE. THE HOOK. I turned around to have a look at you Eying the trail for a slick rock or root Or a glancing reflection of eyes in Puddles or through long-lobed leaves. Were we in high school? I mean You weren’t asking me out to an arcade —a play land—where kids went to lose … More Here. The Hook.