This month’s theme: “Where I Am: Poems of Place”
11/20 • Transplant
Today’s poem is a standalone because of its length. I wasn't prepared for where this prompt would take me. For "transplant" it seemed natural to transplant someone else's words into my own poem. It’s a Glosa, quoting 4 lines from Mary Oliver.
Then I remember:
death comes before
the rolling away
of the stone.
— Mary Oliver, At Black River
Life beyond my ken
flowed through him
when he was young
and branched in ways
I’ll never know.
His bent back showed
the haze of pain
that sharpened his eyes
to slivered glass.
Then I remember:
the high school boys
sitting stoic
as close to him
as they could
while he lay cold
a seed dried for spring
waiting to bear him
where cold matters not.
In the fields
death comes before
the verdant rush—
that stirs seraphim
to cover their eyes
crying Holy—
that quickens archangels
to their warfare
in the Already
of our Not Yet.
Before
the rolling away
of winter’s
final echo
is the rolling away
of its transgressions.
The cold seed
wakes early
before those who breathe—
turns, strengthens
to split the center
of the stone.
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Soooooo good, Mark!
Visually captivating to boot.