TIME JUST KEEPS MOVING ON, IN SPITE OF OUR BEST EFFORTS

from: Heart's Needle        
by W. D. Snodgrass
For Cynthia

4
      No one can tell you why
   the season will not wait;
      the night I told you I
must leave, you wept a fearful rate
         to stay up late.

      Now that it's turning Fan,
   we go to take our walk
      among municipal
flowers, to steal one off its stalk,
         to try and talk.

      We huff like windy giants
   scattering with our breath
      gray-headed dandelions;
Spring is the cold wind's aftermath.
         The poet saith.

      But the asters, too, are gray,
   ghost-gray. Last night's cold
      is sending on their way
petunias and dwarf marigold,
         hunched sick and old.

      Like nerves caught in a graph,
   the morning-glory vines
      frost has erased by half
still scrawl across their rigid twines.
         Like broken lines

      of verses I can't make.
   In its unraveling loom
      we find a flower to take,
with some late buds that might still bloom,
         back to your room.

      Night comes and the stiff dew.
   I'm told a friend's child cried
      because a cricket, who
had minstreled every night outside
         her window, died.

from: Not for Specialists: New and Selected Poems. Copyright 2006.

Sitting Outside

by W. D. Snodgrass

These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge

of bulky redwood were purchased for my father

twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard

where he seldom went when he could still work

and never had stayed long. His left arm

in a sling, then lopped off, he smoked there or slept

while the weather lasted, watched what cars passed,

read stock reports, counted pills,

then dozed again. I didn’t go there

in those last weeks, sick of the delusions

they still maintained, their talk of plans

for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas

once he’d recovered. Under our willows,

this old set’s done well: we’ve sat with company,

read or taken notes—although the arm rests

get dry and splintery or wheels drop off

so the whole frame’s weakened if it’s hauled

across rough ground.  Of course the trees,

too, may not last: leaves storm down,

branches crack off, the riddled bark

separates, then gets shed. I have a son, myself,

with things to be looked after. I sometimes think

since I’ve retired, sitting in the shade here

and feeling the winds shift, I must have been filled

with a child dread you could catch somebody’s dying

if you got too close. And you can’t be too sure.

Copyright © 2006 BOA Editions, Ltd.