Tall in our Bones
Let us wake to another morning,
somewhere when the hours melt
away, somewhere we can stand
and stretch slowly, tall in our bones.
Let us wait to speak, let us listen.
We could spend everything we own
in this garden, by this lake, where
this river runs toward the sea.
Let us breathe, let us fill our lungs
with sweet air, let lightning blast
our worries into smoke. There is
no tomorrow, no yesterday, only
this moment when our hands spill
spun gold onto the thirsty ground.
The Kid With the Drum
appears down the street
sometimes, early when mist
hugs the lakeshore.
It’s a small drum
and he beats it slowly, softly
with the palm of his hand.
Days when he arrives,
stepping out of clouds
or rising from the water
to the uneven sound
of bullfrogs and bees, I stand
by the picture window
and watch him, his small body
indistinct, more shadow
than blood and bone.
I stand and watch him work
his small hand over the tight
skin of that drum,
and now the morning
birds are singing.
Across the lake, wisps of mist
roll, diminish, and disappear.
This is not a painting, not a mirror
or a door. The woman stepping
into steam has called you here
from far away. Her name is written
on the sky. She has held you
in her arms when snow and wind
battered your house, when the air filled
with stinging flies. You remember her
from the mountain top, where she spoke
softly of medicine and grain.
All night you tossed in the cold,
sleeping and waking to the music of frogs.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Shire (Berkshire County, in Massachusetts, that is). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion and The Li Bo Poems.
SteveKlepetar is waiting out the winter and the pandemic in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.
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