Holding Vigil

My cousin asks if I can describe this moment,

the heaviness of it, like sitting outside

the operating room while someone you love 

is in surgery and you’re on those awful plastic chairs

eating flaming Doritos from the vending machine

which is the only thing that seems appealing to you, dinner-wise,

waiting for the moment when the doctor will come out 

in her scrubs and face-mask, which she’ll pull down

to tell you whether your beloved will live or not. That’s how it feels

as the hours tick by, and everyone I care about

is texting me with the same cold lump of dread in their throat

asking if I’m okay, telling me how scared they are.

I suppose in that way this is a moment of unity,

the fact that we are all waiting in the same 

hospital corridor, for the same patient, who is on life support,

and we’re asking each other, Will he wake up?

Will she be herself? And we’re taking turns holding vigil,

as families do, and bringing each other coffee

from the cafeteria, and some of us think she’s gonna make it

while others are already planning what they’ll wear to the funeral,

which is also what happens at times like these,

and I tell my cousin I don’t think I can describe this moment,

heavier than plutonium, but on the other hand,

in the grand scheme of things, I mean the whole sweep

of human history, a soap bubble, because empires

are always rising and falling, and whole civilizations

die, they do, they get wiped out, this happens

all the time, it’s just a shock when it happens to your civilization,

your country, when it’s someone from your family on the respirator, 

and I don’t ask her how she’s sleeping, or what she thinks about

when she wakes at three in the morning,

cause she’s got two daughters, and that’s the thing,

it’s not just us older people, forget about us, we had our day

and we burned right through it, gasoline, fast food, 

cheap clothing, but right now I’m talking about the babies,

and not just the human ones, but also the turtles and owls

and white tigers, the Redwoods, the ozone layer, 

the icebergs for the love of God—every single 

blessed being on the face of this earth

is holding its breath in this moment, 

and if you’re asking, can I describe that, Cousin, 

then I’ve gotta say no, no one could describe it

we all just have to live through it, 

holding each other’s hands.

—Alison Luterman

My November Guest

My sorrow, when she’s here with me,

     Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

     She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

     She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted grey

     Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

     The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

     And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

     The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

     And they are better for her praise.

--Robert Frost

Requiem for Trees

 

i like to imagine

the community of trees,

passing along the news

on autumn’s heavy breaths -

We’ve lost another good one-

as the roots of the fallen

clutch and claw

at the newfound air,

the dirt confused

in the Uprising.

an unseen Conductor raises the baton,

cueing the winds to begin their crescendo

in the sweet spaces of this Requiem.

the mourning and prayer songs begin,

branches reach, repining,

signifying to an unconcerned sky,

as the trees lean on

one another,

singing and shrieking their loss.

--Whitney Gray

Song for Autumn

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
    how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
    nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
    the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep
    inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
    the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
    stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
    its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
    the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

--Mary Oliver

The Cloud

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

And the nursling of the Sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain when with never a stain

The pavilion of Heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

--Percy Bysshe Shelley (final stanza)

[Photo taken of clouds over the Sequatchie Valley].

Autumn Equinox

 

Growing up in a little Vermont glen,

I used to dread how daytime waned each year,

a process that began gradually

at summer solstice as long afternoons

stretched past dinner, and you would have to strain

to notice a few moments missing

when twilight's pink hue finally arrived.

But then sunshine diminished rapidly

following the autumn equinox

nestled in our village between mountains,

and there was no way not to acknowledge

the increased territory of darkness,

encroaching as if an invader

over more than its share of the clock.

The expansion of shadow's boundaries

once disturbed me. I thought the realm between

dawn and night had permanently faded,

and along with it, carefree play outdoors

absent concern for school the next morning.

Even learning it didn't last, I still

felt dismay at what seemed an endless dusk.

Now in midlife, I welcome these months

which offer dark in place of light. They give

a refuge from the sun's persistent blaze,

that constant reminder of work to do.

The gloaming has a snug quality:

a companion's gentle embrace, someone

by my side ever since I can recall.

--Jason Harlow

[Photo taken in Wallingford, Vermont]

Forty-Five Years Together

 

Forty-five years together.

Good times and bad.

In love and out.

Yet always persevering.

Tenacity and grit

are underrated.

Why not praise them, too?

Together to the end.

It is evening.

This is a love poem.

--David Budbill, from Happy Life