carrying the rainbow to Doe Run Farm
Without explanation it fell
as something colorful
to be stunned by
not for what it was
but how it dropped suddenly
into the openness of summer
had not gone
to the horizon, that far,
or disappeared over the mountaintop,
or traveled anyplace beyond reach.
You, who were simply looking for elk,
standing so human
under the wide willow
shielding yourself from the fragrant mix
of sun and rain
would see that perfect arc, of light,
ending
within reach
in front of you.
bringing a storm
Hours later
I was nothing soft, like rainbows.
I was a dark body
of words coming, a force that
was not of your language and still
you understood:
summer thunder
electric breath
what would become of old trees --
the line of locust which had, for so long,
held a good life in their veins.
Even the grass drained of green,
plants grew
wiry to touch, until
the whole hillside quivered
the farmhouse shook --
and this,
I was proud of
for having returned
a certain fear to Doe Run,
a higher respect for myself
that all is of air, all is of me.
floating breath
I am also kind,
so kind, a quiet fog.
Mornings, I appear
as a giant god
drifting low over the sleeping valley
a filmy figure
with long see-through fingers
a privileged one
who wakes everything it touches.
I even saw
your eyes open
your small eyes that hold
the mountains behind them.
It was near dawn --
I was dressed in white
flowing garments
blowing words
through the farmhouse window
and you heard then,
my faint whispering
wake up! wake up!
where you are.
valley breeze
Afternoons, in the valley --
if we say anything to each other,
it is really more about what we do not say.
I never mention
your hours writing
while you deny
I still have the anger that
has not been used.
How freely you walk through the gardens
full of compliments
how I freshen the flowers, you say
and ignore
what is happening beyond --
that part of me
coming off hills,
those dark clouds quickening
over the clenched fist
of trees.
moments of leisure at Doe Run Farm
Idling, or
ruffling some rolled bales of hay
or tickling the daisies
like a day off,
I have time to enter the fields
which hold such
innocence.
What awaits is
hardly to be thought of --
it just comes,
the power of night
when I must move
through sunless hours
away from here, from meadows, from you --
torn from the commonest things
into the hush
of mountains.
resting
There is a long silence, an awkward stillness
for even I sleep
changing the atmosphere
Can you hear my faint good-bye?
Can you not see
I am going
further from this
rolling stretch of land
carrying your thoughts
which have released themselves to me
taking away stale hours,
that you may enter
new ways of becoming.
For I am not only of rainbows, of fog,
storms and pleasant winds, but also
I am of you, all of you,
taking into my lungs
whatever your minds are made of
for you, all of you,
never connected to anything
and yet such a vital part
of your world.
["Voice of Air" first appeared in the author's book Uncommon Geography (Carpenter Gothic, 2006)]
Therese Halscheid
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