Content Feed

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

~ ~ ~

But Eternity – has Rooms –
I did not know – before –
Some furnished – with a single Light –
Some – with an open Door –

The Centuries – have Tenants here –
Who never speak – aloud –
But gesture – with a silent Hand –
Like Figures – in a Crowd –

I asked of Death – if He had seen
The ones I left – behind –
He smiled – the way a Lantern does –
When Wind – disturbs its Kind –

He said – the Living do not know
How thin – the Wall between –
A Breath – a Cobweb – and a Thought –
Is all there is – to Screen –

I pressed my Palm against the Air –
And felt – a Warmth come through –
As if a Hand – on some far Side –
Was reaching – for me too –

The Carriage – waits – it always waits –
The Horses – do not tire –
They've carried Pharaohs – Poets – Saints –
And every lost Desire –

I've learned – that Death is not a Place –
But rather – a Degree –
A slightly different Angle – on
The Light – we used to see –

The Children – at their Recess – still
Are playing – in the Ring –
The Gazing Grain – still gazes up –
The Birds – remember Spring –

And I – who could not stop for Death –
Now find – I cannot leave –
Not out of Chains – but out of Love –
For all that still – believes –

The House – that swelled – beneath the Ground –
Is not so dark – as told –
It has a Window – facing East –
Where Mornings – turn to Gold –

And through that Glass – I watch the World –
Continue – as before –
Each Sunrise – an Apology –
Each Sunset – something More –

So should you feel – a Presence near –
When Dusk – begins to fall –
It may be just – the Centuries –
Remembering – you all –

The Carriage – rocks – the Horses – breathe –
Immortality – keeps still –
And Death – that courteous Gentleman –
Drives on – as Gentlemen will –

Song of the February Light

I celebrate the pale light of February, the stubborn sun that climbs
above the frozen fields and says: I am here, I have not abandoned you.
O the gray mornings! O the crystalline afternoons!
I have walked through them barefoot in my soul,
counting each blade of grass that dares to dream beneath the frost.

I sing the continent of winter, the vast republic of silence,
the democracy of bare oaks standing equal in the wind,
each one stripped to its essential self, each one a monument
to endurance, to the long patience of roots.

Do you think the earth forgets?
I tell you the earth remembers everything—
every seed that was buried, every name that was whispered
into the November ground, every promise the autumn made
before it turned its back and walked into the dark.

I have seen the farmer standing at the edge of his land,
his breath a brief ghost in the morning air,
and I have loved him for his silence,
for the way he trusts what he cannot yet see.

I have seen the river under its plate of ice,
still moving, still carrying its cargo of stones and silt
toward the sea—and I say to you,
this is the lesson: even what appears frozen
is traveling, is becoming, is on its way.

And you, walking through the February streets,
your coat buttoned against the wind,
your hands thrust deep in your pockets—
do you not feel it? The imperceptible turning?
The axis of the world shifting one degree toward warmth?

I feel it. I feel it in the lengthening of the afternoon,
in the quality of shadow that falls differently now
than it fell in January, a shade less absolute,
a fraction more forgiving.

O February! Month of contradictions!
Month of thaw and refreeze, of false springs
and true endurance, of the crocus that pushes
its green spear through the crust of old snow
and does not ask permission.

I am that crocus. You are that crocus.
We are all of us pushing through.

I catalogue the signs: the cardinal's red assertion
against the white field, the chickadee's two-note song
that sounds like fee-bee, fee-bee,
as if the bird itself were calling spring by name.

The puddle at the crossroads catching sky.
The icicle releasing one slow drop, then another.
The child pressing a mitten to the window,
breathing a circle of fog on the glass
and drawing a sun inside it.

These are my America. These are my verses.

I do not separate the grand from the small—
for what is grander than a single drop of water
finding its way from ice to earth to root to stem
to the flower that will open in April
and turn its face to the light
as I turn my face to the light
as you turn your face to the light?

Comrades, I say to you: endure.
The light is returning. It has always been returning.
Every February proves it.
Every dawn is an argument against despair.

I celebrate the pale light, the stubborn light,
the light that does not shout but simply arrives,
quiet as a hand on a shoulder,
quiet as a promise kept.

The Raven's Return: A Midnight Sequel
A Continuation of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven"

Once upon a midnight weary, as I wandered, worn and teary,
Through the chamber where the Raven sat upon my chamber door—
Years had passed since that December, yet I still could well remember
Every word that spectral member spoke of Lenore, my lost Lenore—
That dark prophet still remaining, perched above my chamber door,
Whispering forever, 'Nevermore.'

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors felt so long before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:
'It is but the wind entreating entrance through my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.'

But the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath sent thee—by these angels he hath lent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
I shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Evermore.'

Startled by this strange new token—word so long ago unspoken—
'Evermore?' I gasped in wonder, trembling on the chamber floor.
'Dost thou speak of hope eternal? Light within this vault infernal?
After years of grief nocturnal, shall I see my lost Lenore?'
And the Raven stirred his pinions, spread them wide above the door,
Murmuring softly, 'Evermore.'

Then a light began to glimmer, and the darkness seemed to shimmer,
As if dawn itself were breaking through my long-sealed chamber door;
And I thought I heard her singing—bells of silver sweetly ringing—
And the scent of roses clinging to the air I breathed of yore.
Could it be my lost beloved, she whom I had grieved so sore?
Could it be... forevermore?

But the vision faded, fleeting, and I felt my frail heart beating
As the shadows crept returning, darker than they were before.
And the Raven sat there, gleaming, and I knew not: waking, dreaming?
Had he spoken? Was I screaming? Madness knocking at my door?
Only silence hung between us—silence... and the name Lenore.
Only this and nothing more.

Still the Raven keeps his station, mockery of my desolation,
And I wonder if salvation waits beyond that spectral door.
Was his promise merely seeming? Or perhaps—oh, hopeful dreaming!—
Somewhere past the lamplight gleaming, I shall find my lost Lenore.
Till that day I sit here waiting, watching, through my chamber door,
Waiting... evermore.