Today's poem is by Michael Pettit
Imagine. Me, patient. Who was ready
once at once. Hot to trot. She need only
glance my way, or whistle, need do nothing
but breathe and turn away for me to sing
Now! in a hundred tongues. If now is then
then then is nowI need not worry when
love might befall me. Imagination
is a kind of patience. I see children
scatter before their urges here and there,
and see the wreckage left behind, minor
and major: abandoned soldiers, dolls, games,
or a father, bereft, calling their names
at twilight. In the morning he'll find birds
alighting and leaving the feeder, words
he can say over and over to make
the hours pass unmeasured. Patience. Storms break
over our heads, rain sleet snow each in time
and we ride them out. I dream trillium
under this cold white yard, a May flower
the red of dried blood or wine spilled over
the woods I will walk deep in thought, chanting
stalk, leaf, sepal, petal, stamen, pollen.
I'll walk back the same path after I gather
an acorn, birch bark, courage to declare
my best or least vision or condition
love or lost love or simple exhaustion.
Oh the patience to nap each afternoon!
Lie down, let the world go, old blue balloon.
Let the body speak, sleep its syllable,
dreamy hour of it, the push and pull
of all impatient souls. Imagine. Me.
At peace. Believing. Abiding. Set free.
Copyright © 2006 Michael Pettit All rights reserved
from The Kenyon Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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