11 years old this month and still a spritely, happy guy.
A man comes to love the ground where he lives, yet
how does this begin, in what sun-vanished split
of time, what yellow leaf-fall, what graying scrape
rain drags long the dirt road? I cannot hope
to know who I am until I have learned what
all seems to know in unfailing flow: moment
by moment life is life, and death is more life.
The braiding wallside cries of cardinals climb
past where I lie, a boy, hoping I will go
far, trying to dream its shape, know what I’ll know.
What day is it I feel my father’s boat drift
slowly out, then back, caught in the tidal shift?
Pieces sail by, grass, paper, wood, frayed rope.
Dave Smith, from Fate’s Kite: Poems, 1991-1995 (Louisiana State University Press, 1995)