Higher than the birds,
wildfire smoke from the West Coast.
Yet a cold wind sur-
prises me. It’s Fall.
I watch ducks watch a dinghy
put-putting out to
the ocean. The world-
space contains me, pierces me.
Something just let go.
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/16/20
I watch broken bits
of shell rise and fall in the
waves, think of Basho
saying good bye with
a lecture on his ideal:
a sandy bed seen through
a shallow river.
He left them on a litter
in the pouring rain.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/15/20
I left the West Coast
for Rhode Island. Now the smoke
from western wildfires
dims our feeble sun.
Even our gregarious
ducks say nothing back.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/14/20
My attention drawn
closer by a butterfly
on the Queen Anne’s Lace,
a break in the clouds,
she tends the border, anon-
ymous volunteer
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/13/20
The marsh grass bronzes
in the warm sun and cold wind.
The human alloy
moves the heart to change.
We are all grass. We pray to
feel the sun and wind.
The elements are
God’s word to flesh that’s open
to the sun, the wind.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/12/20
The window open
to the chilled September air,
the hush of traffic.
Such I am tonight
under this lamp, a breath
of warm air, ongoing.
White lights then red lights
disappear down the dark road.
I rest in unknowing.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/11/20
Big fires both sides of
the highway as we drove north
fifty years ago.
Today the West Coast
fires are apocalyptic.
I hunch over in
the wind off the Bay,
the rhythmic hushing of the
waves concentrate the
mind. Words escape me.
Apocalyptic is not
a word but a scream.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/10/20
Desert my first land-
scape. Tumbleweeds and poppies
shaped the seasons. Snow
on a distant peak.
Now at sea level, I watch
a tired cormorant
soak up Fall sunshine.
Basho was right to find com-
panions everywhere.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/8/20
Darker earlier.
I let the tea steep longer,
sip it more slowly.
Between now and dawn
books, memories, and more books.
Memories of books.
The bad infinite.
I turn your picture to the
wall. You make good dreams.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9/7/20
The village subdued
this Labor Day. You’re either
out of work or know
someone who is. I
drift down to the cove to see
the cormorants. Three
crowd the deck. The breeze
swelling their wings, they wobble
in the autumn sun.
Under the pier, a
small white egret. I over-
looked it then saw it.
