twine

twine

for it’s true, isn’t it,

in our world

that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns

are a single thing—

that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness,

would be without expression—

that love itself, without its pain, would be

no more than a shruggable comfort.

                                    Mary Oliver

                       “A Certain Sharpness in the Morning Air”

enough rope to hang

            one or two loads

                        of laundry – one

                                    if I’ve washed all

                                                your sheets.  enough

breeze they’ll be out

            all day in it, kick slap lip

                        the grass when the pole

                                    slips off her yoke, prone

                                                on the floor of the world.

enough light at the end

            of the day to make

                        the bed with you

                                    still in it, propped on

                                                your hip, wheeze and whir enough

to rush the cupped

            closure of the fitted ends

                        and smooth out the new clean bed

                                    diaper you used

                                                to call it when you could

speak – would speak.  i like

            that the window faces the clothes-

                        line.  The morning is visible with

                                    work all strung out

                                                to dry.  I like, somehow,

now, that today you’re lying

            just out beyond it all, looking

                        back if you want, pleased

                                    at the lengths we go

                                                to make it

enough, one or two

            loads at time…