I surrender now
Give myself over to
The whisper
And the soft music in the walls
In the ether
Where everything hovers
Waiting
Even the dust,
Giddy with the promise of renewal
Dim the lights, burn the mugwort
Tonight, we commune.
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Happy Birthday to Pulitzer-prize winning author, Annie Proulx, who turns 84 today and whose fiction transports the reader into pockets of rural America most will never see. You don’t really read an Annie Proulx story, you inhabit it, and no matter how somber or bleak the journey, you are always the better for it.
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Oh muse,
how you fix at me with sleepy eyes
your tail a pendulum, back and forth
cleaving bloated minutes on the brink
(always on the brink)
of the next idea.
Oh muse,
how your whiskers twitch ‘gainst hurried hands
feeding hands that nag now, stop and start
pounding, locked in some human rhythm
(desperate, choked rhythm)
of the next idea.
Oh muse,
how you warm my side
how you moan and purr
how you sleep a tiger’s sleep of stoic peace
beyond ideas
in the animal space
dreaming of blackbirds and tattered socks
and little plastic milk tops that tap and crinkle cross the floor.
