Why not begin
with the saw mill, which never
angers
the air its addiction to light,
the light its mimcry
of sound, how it happens
all over, always
on the mountain road
you pass the tree farm—
fir, spruce—so many
ladies in waiting
in the painting of it
the artist forgets
to give them faces
nevertheless they greet you
with the difficult heft and
hipswish
of their hoopskirts
some hope might gather there.
or is it
a hidden binge of winter air?
I'm continually impressed by how different each poem is. The attention to sound in this is a-mazing. I'd like to talk about the end.
ReplyDeleteI, too, love the sounds - especially the "difficult heft and hipwish / of their hoopskirts / some "hope might gather there." The main challenge for me was when to honor the enjambment into the next stanze and when to end stop the line (as I read it aloud). Should there be a period after "angers"? And also one after "road" and "waiting"? I stalled, for meaning, at these moments . . . That said, I wondered, too, about the ending - as "a hidden binge of winter air" is a sweet line.
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