ISSN 1758-6488
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Continual Visit Poetry |
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I woke and thought
the place was a dream: house, lake, meadow
sharpening and shimmering like a doubtful gift
continually offered, continually withheld.
I could hardly walk to the end of the lane
without feeling my foolish life resist
the green song, the green light
as if every breath were not
a continual visit, every place the same gift;
as if the planet didn’t sharpen and shimmer
and standing in the lane were not the offer
or as if whatever was resisted could be wrapped again
and like the missed song and the light forsworn
would endlessly return.
