By Tacit Agreement, Sunday at the Sensiba Trail

We do not speak of the outside world –

we whistle at the sun nosing around

the fraying stratus clouds,

lifting and dropping

golden rays that splash our ankles and

the winter-dead grasses –

we call out to our dogs

sniffing one another in turn,

then exuberantly rolling in the dead carp

that the bald eagle has dropped.

We ask each other, on the other ends of leashes,

what breed of dog they are, and how old,

and if there are kids running ahead

or lagging behind, they shout out random bits

of information, like what they’re having

for dinner or about the mitten they dropped

somewhere in between the car and you.

The woman cradling the camera and

walking slightly behind the man with the cane

smiles at me as I kneel down to frame up

a pussy willow branch struck against

a ragged patch of blue sky; she says

Spring is coming, and I feel in my bones

that it’s true, that its grace is sufficient

but too late, too late for us –

in a moment it will burst into green flame

and lie like a shroud upon the brow of this fevered world.

In Which Woolly Mammoths Save the World, Starting with Siberia, Because Permafrost is Melt and Carbon is Release

 

First, a reliquary:

Collect the bones of the mammoth,

delivered onto the shore

by the soak cycle of thawing tundra,

rinsed clean by the lapping frigid lake,

and swaddled in a jumble of reeds

on a pebbled shore.

Second, bioethics and cloning:

Something something DNA,

scientists, test tubes, maybe

a centrifuge and an elephant, I guess.

Wait ten years. A mammoth is not

a velociraptor, so don’t worry

about any of that.

Third, intermodal transit:

Carefully place brand-new,

sedated mammoths into slings

and hoist them high enough

so their fur-fringed foot pads

don’t drag along the tree line

and bring the helicopter down.

Fourth, implied consent:

Wake them gently with caresses

on the tundra overgrown with saplings

hoarding particles of heat like gold,

coax mammoths onto the spongy ground

barely able to contain their weight.

(Consider – giant snowshoes to spread out

their ungainly mass?)

Fifth, unionize:

After a good long drink at the lake

through supple bristled trunks, while peering out

of eyes fringed with lashes curtained against the snow –

show them how to trample the trees, strip the leaves,

leave the tundra treeless, cooling the earth’s

fevered brow.

Sixth, pray:

Though it be zaprescheno, pray.

The Insufferable Logic of Tides

Sometimes

you are hauled backward

before you can

move forward; you get on a plane in the dark

in Nashville

and head south to Atlanta before touching down

in Milwaukee

where someone you love waits in the sleeting rain

to drive you back

and pour you into a warm, flightless

bed.

Sometimes

the moon draws you back

like a half smile,

a wave helpless against a tide of something deeper

than you can fathom;

you just catch sight of land when Lake Michigan’s icy fingers drag you

coughing, gasping,

half-drowned into the past, the future laid out on the pebbled shore

like a table set for someone

who is not you.

Sometime, maybe,

the path worn by the incessant argument between

then and now,

between what you squint to see and what you’ve got,

will give way –

and the ragged rasp of back and forth, back and forth,

forth and back,

will stop – and you’ll be delivered like a newborn,

one last push

will show you into the world you never saw coming

despite

all of the maps you drew.

The Disobedience of Rain

October rain

ebbs and flows and

falls and falls and falls

on the crooked pine trees and the roof,

on the old swing set and the black driveway,

on the cold, wet burn barrel and the American flag

at the hundred year old house on Shady Lane

where my parents live

still.

In the basement,

a dehumidifier pulls water from the sodden air,

dutifully filling and re-filling the pan.

Two sump pumps run full time,

a generator stands at the ready.

The water is carried by a snaking black hose

into the low-lying woods surrounding the house

and seeps back in again, later,

like a teenager after curfew, quiet, 

up through the cracks in the cement basement floor.

The stone walls

press large boulders against the earth

like praying fists.

It’s never rained this much before

this time of year.

My mother, 72 years old,

raised by practical German and Norwegian folk

on the Minnesota plains,

already sleeps with one eye open to make sure my father,

six years older and soaked years before

by Vietnamese monsoons and Agent Orange,

isn’t swept away into the woods,

disappearing

over his head.

She now sleeps with the other eye open, too,

straining to hear any absence of the motors,

first one,

then the other,

like twin chambers of the heart,

one ventricle pulling in the tired gray water,

one aorta pushing it out, clean and quick.

Pull, push.

Pull, push.

Pull, push.

It’s hard to listen for, it’s hard to hear

nothing.

And meanwhile the rain keeps falling

drop by drop,

drop by drop,

drop by drop

on the turning leaves,

on the feathery moss,

on the withered corn,

on the rivers already swollen,

already tired of carrying things away.

Somewhere, Another (The Pied Billed Grebe)

A pied-billed grebe

has already paddled madly

halfway across this cove

(its crested head sporting a half-hearted mohawk,

its body a sputtering vector moving toward the northwest,

Lake Superior swollen like a too-observant eye)

before I realize

that it has darted out from under this porch

that hangs over the water where I stand holding my coffee,

not wanting to go home.

It’s as though a magician

has produced an egg from my ear,

or I’ve rummaged in my purse looking for car keys

and I’ve found a room in my house

I didn’t know was there.

Somewhere, that grebe has

another grebe,

and chicks that have fledged and gone

by this late September Sunday,

and a worn and forlorn nest

patched together with empty reeds and sticks,

bits of plastic water bottles and lily pads,

feathers and hollow crayfish claws –

holding nothing,

bobbing along the indifferent surface

of the lake, pulled north

by the false promises of the moon,

swamped by the wake of passing boats.

I wonder then,

my coffee grown cold in its paper cup,

only the fading ripples left on the lake,

what I may be capable of now,

what other secrets

I may harbor.

Eye of the Day

One common tern

hovers

high above Lake Michigan,

then dives

under the waves and back

again,

its path a ragged stitch

from

sky purpling like a bruise

into

water smooth as a mirror,

and

then back to sky again,

pulling

together heaven and earth

like

the closing of a weary

eye.