Photogene
When in the near dark the
leaves turn grey to our eyes
and I'm quiet but hear
the motion outside
I think how the plants
at noon are arrayed
so that each leaf
receives the maximum light
though half the process
of synthesis occurs
in its absence.
The prayer plant's
cathedral windows fold
and I watch the children catch
fireflies in cupped hands and giggle
as the flutter of wings buzzes
against small jar prisons that glow
and I think how we love
the trees for their shade
though they are blind
to their own green
and throw it away.
Poem copyright ©1984 by David A. Goodrum, “Photogene,” from Windfall, (Issue 6, Spring 1984). Poem reprinted by permission of David A. Goodrum and the publisher.
When in the near dark the
leaves turn grey to our eyes
and I'm quiet but hear
the motion outside
I think how the plants
at noon are arrayed
so that each leaf
receives the maximum light
though half the process
of synthesis occurs
in its absence.
The prayer plant's
cathedral windows fold
and I watch the children catch
fireflies in cupped hands and giggle
as the flutter of wings buzzes
against small jar prisons that glow
and I think how we love
the trees for their shade
though they are blind
to their own green
and throw it away.
Poem copyright ©1984 by David A. Goodrum, “Photogene,” from Windfall, (Issue 6, Spring 1984). Poem reprinted by permission of David A. Goodrum and the publisher.
Nesting
An endless stripe of starlings
on the last winter gusts,
this black forsythia branch
suddenly blooms over the houses.
We gather on the porch winter minded
and chuckle over the possible droppings,
a rank snowcover for the cars;
but the children race into the street,
covering their mouths with their hands
playing scared for us, to see
this first kept promise of the season,
the lead bird pulling a magician's silk scarf
from the horizon.
*
All winter we felt the frozen rain
on the bud casings, a brittle protection
from still icier air, wrapping ourselves
in dejected moods, dull eggs from easter,
smelly old yolks lost in the house, ambitions
like shredded newspaper refusing
the trick of mending, the secret wires and mirrors
unable to raise our stubborn bodies off the couch.
Now the airstreams of laughter lift
the dark thawed water ropebraid of birds
up from our hair, hands, mouths
and we gape at the bright shell bits falling
from their squawking beaks.
*
The low clouds of birds circle above the fields,
a swirling brew of shadows and open forms at dusk,
a reeling funnel settling into the woods
for a week of practiced migration,
before following the Spring sluice
down the valleys for the first worm
cracked pinecone and scattered seed.
We of course stay here;
the branches no longer bow
low with ice, the redbud
and crabapple bloom anyway,
the purple badges of victory
fill the trees.
Poem copyright ©1984 by David A. Goodrum, “Nesting,” from Gryphon, (Issue 9-10, Fall-Winter 1984). Poem reprinted by permission of David A. Goodrum and the publisher.
An endless stripe of starlings
on the last winter gusts,
this black forsythia branch
suddenly blooms over the houses.
We gather on the porch winter minded
and chuckle over the possible droppings,
a rank snowcover for the cars;
but the children race into the street,
covering their mouths with their hands
playing scared for us, to see
this first kept promise of the season,
the lead bird pulling a magician's silk scarf
from the horizon.
*
All winter we felt the frozen rain
on the bud casings, a brittle protection
from still icier air, wrapping ourselves
in dejected moods, dull eggs from easter,
smelly old yolks lost in the house, ambitions
like shredded newspaper refusing
the trick of mending, the secret wires and mirrors
unable to raise our stubborn bodies off the couch.
Now the airstreams of laughter lift
the dark thawed water ropebraid of birds
up from our hair, hands, mouths
and we gape at the bright shell bits falling
from their squawking beaks.
*
The low clouds of birds circle above the fields,
a swirling brew of shadows and open forms at dusk,
a reeling funnel settling into the woods
for a week of practiced migration,
before following the Spring sluice
down the valleys for the first worm
cracked pinecone and scattered seed.
We of course stay here;
the branches no longer bow
low with ice, the redbud
and crabapple bloom anyway,
the purple badges of victory
fill the trees.
Poem copyright ©1984 by David A. Goodrum, “Nesting,” from Gryphon, (Issue 9-10, Fall-Winter 1984). Poem reprinted by permission of David A. Goodrum and the publisher.
