Leslie LaChance
Vesper
Tobby Hollow Lane ~ Dead of Winter
A day of dig and burn, rock and brush, and breaking blows
til early twilight catches, yes
catches, and we sit ourselves down, stilled now
in our creasy hills.
Detritus writes itself across the land in stories such as these:
mystery metal in brown mounds
feed buckets, punctured
curly old box springs
barbed wire wreaths
coops and barns and last century’s
houses folding themselves down
into lime and mud.
And us, only a bit tired.
Oh, St. Tobby of the Holler
hear our prayer:
let our dogs be brave, the children hale
and obedient
let the hens live long enough to lay
dozens upon dozens
and the sheep to lamb
again.
When we take ax to ice
let the spring flow through unto summer,
waters ever sweetening the root.
~
St. Tobby among the Yard Birds
and Severn Burgess will fight his birds still —
one does not keep so many and not do
oh, let the law try —
his yard remains a shivering iridescence of Claret
Bantam Rock
spur and sickle gold hackle
stout hock
one could doubt a man
who cannot find beauty in a rooster and music
in the cluck and fuss of hens
or who will not see Mystery’s finger in it
when we break the breakfast egg
find the spot of blood quickening in bright yolk
and eat
~
This Way to Your Future Home
a shingled city house
on a hill, a fine view
of the glittering center, no —
a low floor in a high rise
and dog-walking in the dead
of winter, no —
a cottage just out
of bounds where
night shows up before
it comes to those in
town, no — a gypsy
caravan on the isle
of cormorants, no —
a closet in a convent,
one square shaft of light
by which you’ll kneel, no —
a silk pavilion in a green wood, no —
a treehouse, a tower, a boat
a rude hut, or pit,
a ghat, a flame —
each strut through this museum
of your ambition
ends the same
~
~return to poetry home