A perfectly gray
day. Who can understand it?
Imperceptibly
the ducks float between
cove and cloud. Life is not art.
We wait for spring. We
come to rest in what
we do not know. We quote Chuang
Tzu on wild-card mind.
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 10.4.21
Radiance of mud-
flats. A man and a boy walk
the edge of the bay.
They stop. The man looks
out over the water, the
boy crouches at his
feet. Sunlight touches
the boy’s red shirt. Desire makes
man, boy, sun equal.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 9.4.21
From my sickbed I
listen to the twisting gulls
squeal in shifting winds.
I have seen broken
water shine in April sun
under tiny gulls.
I have come to this
late in life. Call it Stoic,
call it mystical.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 8:4.21
On my morning walk
to the dock, the goose couple
we all know was there,
one alert in shade,
the other asleep in the
sun, the head bent back,
lost in bright plumage.
Young, I could see my old wife
and me that happy.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 7.4.21
On the icy waves
of a dark spring day, the ducks
are quite voluble.
They stick together
on the broken waves, their words
a comfort like those
a poet overhears
in the poem she writes so
she can write again.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 6.4.21
Ah, see, they return,
the village’s children, from
schools far away, dreams
of another life.
The essential summer work
must be done, money
must be made. See them
talk among themselves. Two sit
at the water’s edge,
lean together, be-
fore life can begin, begin
a different life.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 5.4.21
Yellow daffodils
brim the cove where the swans swim
together. The light
does not know what it
is or wants, but I stand here
as the day passes.
It’s Easter Monday.
Is what I’m seeking not this
ordinary peace?
NEAR PROVIDENCE 4.4.21
It’s Easter, I’m up
early. I visit the geese
as they preen and sun
in the early light.
They are not religious,
I tell myself, mesh
of habit, desire—
flesh of my Flesh. I do love
them for their thick selves.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 4.3.21
I pause at the bridge
on the way to the pub. Spring
waters sparkle and roar
into the Bay, surge
at the very place Buson
stood near the floating
world, or so I dream.
It is Easter Saturday
and hell is empty.
Refreshed faces hold
me here, repeat their stories—-
they know I’ll listen.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 4.2.21
And was your walk in-
terrupted by St. Stephen’s
bells this Good Friday?
The silence of swans
feeding in the Bay deepened,
their long necks whitened.
Love is sacrifice,
I’m told, though my memories
of love heighten it.
