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Some days I am happy to be no one
The shifting grasses
In the May winds are miraculous enough
As they ripple through the meadow of lupine
The field as iridescent as a Renaissance heaven
& do you see that boy with his arms raised
Like one of Raphael’s angels held within
This hush & this pause & the sky’s lapis expanse?
That boy is my son & I am his only father
Even when I am no one
Copyright © David St. John. Used with permission of the author.
The forest is its own thanksgiving
Walking a mile or so from the road
Past the lake & ancient post office
I skim the long bodies of the beech trees
It was I think a small town in Ohio
I taped to the wall above my office desk the postcard
Of Klimt’s painting called The Park
An example of cliché so profuse it touched my heart
for T
Late winter yet we stood at the open window
Its green wood shutters pushed back like wings
Against the walls of the ancient building
We stood at the aperture of the narrow room
Looking down onto the fountain in the cortile
Her old room now mine & she said nothing