the lead poem on Floating Poetry Broadcast #180, on Nostalgia
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,