Sweet Spring Summer in the Morning Afternoon
Room-warm tea in the chipped blue cup.
My husband — how I love him! — has gone off across the water
we can see now from the couch.
The boats go, we moved it.
From the sound of the kitchen, dishes. Me,
getting ready to leave
for work, where I’ll whip
boxes out of flats &
pull taps toward my chest &
tilt glasses at angles
under spouts.
That’s me at the back door, locking it.
Me breathing the blue car’s fruit-smelling atmosphere.
I will for once have drunk enough water.
I will have eaten leaves for lunch.
(I might have even washed my hair.)
Outside now, the snow is melted, save
for the grass where it looks like clover & so seems summer
despite the cold.
But no, it’s summer, the days are long & the clover looks like snow.
Fortissimo
Nothing to say, nothing I want.
I took a walk, the sun filled me up.
Up the strong hill,
up the strong steps.
With my face I followed it,
getting my dose.
Listening to a strong piano.
With passionate language I felt
in my chest, the tenor’s full sail
filled an upper register.
I stopped and swayed, and then I looked up —
The trees; the clouds.
I felt happy, as if after a long sadness.
At noon I heard twelve bells.
Kary Wayson’s most recent book is The Slip, winner of the Burnside Review Poetry Prize. She lives in Port Orchard, Wash.
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