Solitudes, by Margaret Gibson


For today, I will memorize

the two trees now in end-of-summer light

and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward

the black pond, blue


in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen

from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern—

quick—a glimpse of it,

the plume, a fox-tail’s copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,

chasing scent.

The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.

The hawk has its branch in the pine.

White petals ripple in the quiet light.

In the quiet, a necklace of gourds on the fence.

A mourning cloak on a seeded spray of crabgrass.

An undulant whine of cicadas.

– Margaret Gibson


4 thoughts on “Solitudes, by Margaret Gibson

  1. A poem that helps us enter the . . . real world, a specific place, an anchored time. I love the idea that the yard is a waiting room, as it seems I am always waiting for something when I look out my window every morning, waiting for sun if there are so many clouds, waiting to glimpse the egret or a deer, waiting for rain or for it to stop. Watching my little green space, I feel connected to the world, even if it is a small world of ordinary things, it’s large enough for me!

  2. Beautiful seasonal images. I well understand the desire to store them in our memory banks for those long winter months. Although I don’t always have time to comment, I enjoy reading your fascinating posts. Thanks for sharing.

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