And one more from this book of my own called "The View
From The Porch."
Again, utilizing that landscape in a fictitious way, of course.
Poetry is fiction.
Doesn't mean it's not true.
"The View From The Porch" starts with a noise.
[THUDS]
[LAUGHTER]
"Thud, thud.
All the sores go blind and over the basket of pears hover
brief addicted fruit fly.
The bruises on the pears are also blind.
The barn is blue, as far from the Mediterranean as possible.
You'd think the residents' serious here,
each one scattered lonely as a cow pie.
You'd think blood in the rafters.
But if you listen, both ears closed,
you'll hear a plow parting earth.
Closer, some worms unburied, nervous.
The chirpers are happy.
The humans go about jobs in barn, field or house,
healing unhealing, and sky again is
admitted to the dumb lovely dirt turned over and over,
turning its worn yawn wide, breathing, nearly alert."
I think that poem was on the poster of the folder announcing
the reading.