Summer Carvings

 

For a brief moment the wind rises

violently

out of the garden,

alleviates the heat and lifts the gnats

off my skin

 

The Wild-Wife passes me

up the alley,

on her way back from the mailbox

down by the country road,

empty-handed

 

The book of poetry I just picked up

at the country store,

delivered from Amazon,

lies on my lap,

ready to speak:
Helen Macdonald's Shaler's Fish

 

A very old man sits in the house;

the Wild-Wife's father,

a gentle, soft-spoken fellow, visiting;

his DNA performing wonders

down three off-springs: Anna, Anders, Kristina

 

This day is an idealized version

of the summers of mankind;

the wind falling and rising through the birches,

through the grass,

making the world whisper and gleam,

the birds mostly fallen silent

after the Midsummer passage,

with a few still chirping here and there,

making sure life remains spatial

and four-dimensional

 

The world ages,

tightly attached to my skin

on all sides,

but renews itself

 

My body ages,

but my thoughts are renewed

 

I become more the world,

while my thoughts veer off,

becoming sharp and surprising,

like swifts shooting

'round the bastions of Savonlinna

in a former love-life

 

I take care to notice,

make sure not to not see

 

Synchronicity makes the unrelated relate

in my notes and days,

as all days meet in this day,

in the wind that falls and rises;

the Wild-Wife walking around the farm

up on the hill,

tending to farm matters;

her old father taking an afternoon nap

inside the house,

reminding me of a Neil Young song,

me sitting on a plastic garden chair

in the warm wind outside the house,

by the path leading through the birch alley

down to the country road,

letting thoughts wander as they may,

some getting caught on the pages of the notebook,

as life passes through me,

through the garden,

through the forest 'round the farm,

through the Wild-Wife

and through her old dad

inside the house,

for a while longer,

yes, for a while longer

 

The sun shines through petals,

the world strokes my sentience;

lost and forgotten hum

in the foliages

 





Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 29 times
Written on 2022-06-28 at 17:55

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text