implacable and clear
wind drilling the last leaf
the poet to play it safe
slept with a baby's quilt
pulled over his bald head.
O what's the winter for?
To remember love, he said.
Fox on his back in a hole
snake eyes in the wall asleep
grubs shellacked in their coils
sap locked tight to the pith
roots sucking a hollow tooth
a brown and pregnant bear
leaf-wrapped like an old cigar....
O what's the winter for?
the quilted poet asked.
Doors slam overhead
as maple buffets ash.
To remember love, he said.
[Maxine Kumin {1925-2014} 'Fox on his Back' (homage to Theodore Roethke), from Where I Live: New & Selected Poems 1990-2010]
No comments:
Post a Comment