Sunday, June 17, 2012

i love the last stanza

Self Portrait as a Meadow

by Linda Norton

There is a chair
the heart of which
is wooden
split five ways
and grass pressed flat
where we kissed
where others later kissed
on the same mattress
and solemn nothing
happening under a canopy—

Have you forgotten me?

I will go down wonderfully
as was told in proverbs
though for a long time I thought
I should not go.

Here are things that have
no Latin names
or none
that men would know.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

this kind of bird sleeps all day

There is a swift roosting
in the cavity of my chest.  
Every time you enter  
the room, he ruffs
his wings.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

june poem


The garden roses peak in quick
succession, each a different shade
of circus orange or absolutely
pink. And as one begins to bow,
I am left counting the green
buds left on the bush.

How long does anything last?
Always I have been grateful
for seasons change: the muted
shades of autumn after summer’s
fluorescence. Winter’s quiet
fields of swans and spring’s
quick revival of song—

but darling, already the rain
has mashed the peony’s
layered petals into a brown mitt
and the roses are parading
into summer. Over here,
I blush for you, again and again: 
it is this I am trying to hold on to.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

The Extraordinary Occurrence of Words

There is a dream I have
where the mute child speaks.
It isn’t even as if she
has so much to say, but
just last night she was telling me
how her brother is not afraid
of bees and how her father
made her laugh by pretending
to eat her toes. Maybe it is
selfish for me to want words
from her when I already
have everything I need, but
last night I was delighted
to hear she wanted red pasta
over potatoes and green beans.