WRITING HOME
The old never-remarked sky sweeps clear
its cloud harbor of galleon fleets
across its oceanic civilization of wind.
Decades it’s been since I noticed anything
like this, this steady blue unbudging above,
its shocking lack of commentary.
Days after, when I turned to write home,
it was high time I said what it was to see and feel
from this low lookout onto sky-borne sea,
my patchwork bureau, this piece of earth,
high time to tell everyone outright the news
and get off a dispatch without delay,
holding back nothing this time.
© copyright 2024 Ray Waddle
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SPRING FORWARD FALL BACK
Earth clears its field, stripped wet and raw,
and I can finally hear what it’s hearing:
engines oily searing the asphalt everywhere,
the circling hawk’s spiraling claw,
the football clatter in my brain.
September’s festive barge floated away,
bronze October set sail,
now November’s gray glory docks into its pier.
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I took a slow walk this morning,
bent low, alarming the neighbors,
but I was merely examining evidence:
Sometime last night November
picked up an hour and took a fall,
stumbling backward.
A bruised memory rides the air
where the extra hour used to be.
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Shaking off trauma and deficit,
the 11th month steps out now
in silver leafless light,
extending a damp open palm to greet
the winded year, its winding down,
and seeing me motions me over,
saying take my hand,
stand out here a while with me.
© copyright 2024 Ray Waddle
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DUET
The sky’s what’s there till we see God –
protector, infinity at hand, no contest.
An itch to argue says it doesn’t exist, the sky:
it’s just a fancy scatter of sunlight, a blues figment,
a cobalt smear of atmosphere. Talk all you want:
the sky outlasts the circus act of reason.
Meeting sky somewhere there is prayer:
they fuse and fuel, position, torch, expand.
I thank God the sky is no metaphor –
towering it bears down, inconceivably,
what’s there till we see God.
© copyright 2024 Ray Waddle