Letter to James Wright from the Rocks above Bass Pond at the End of Summer
I bang fist-sized stones together. Once.
Stones cool with the smell of dirt
from lying in the ferns.
My palms love their gritty sides.
The hollow tonk plucks at air
like a first raindrop hitting a spider’s web,
the attentiveness of a word
and no content.
The solemn turkey buzzard shrugs higher.
Grey moss cracks underfoot.
Juniper and blueberry clench small.
Here wind and weak sun --
below, the fur of trees ruffles,
the pond glints,
losing track of my failures.
I will lie and wither like the moss
and rise in a year, language as hard
and unused as a scatter of pebbles,
to find my own crossed thighbones here,
to knock together for prayer.