Passing Through Wilmot
Tonight old man, your spirit whispers,
“Take care of the fields, stoke the fires.
Close the shades against the sounds.
Traffic is sure to come.”
“Take care of the fields, stoke the fires.
Close the shades against the sounds.
Traffic is sure to come.”
It’s summer and Kearsage rises
In the haze of midday.
The old train station still aches
For the rumble and smoke.
The old train station still aches
For the rumble and smoke.
Evenings still come on slow.
The tick of grasshoppers tease.
Grasses rustle and click
On the evening breeze.
The tick of grasshoppers tease.
Grasses rustle and click
On the evening breeze.
The minions will surely gather,
To make the pilgrimage.
Wilmot will shudder and sigh,
Knowing that it's just your due.
To make the pilgrimage.
Wilmot will shudder and sigh,
Knowing that it's just your due.
The autumn’s breeze will descend.
The nights will become chill.
The view of Kearsage will open up
And on you’ll go to the night and stars.
The nights will become chill.
The view of Kearsage will open up
And on you’ll go to the night and stars.
Tonight, old man, your spirit demands,
“Feed the cat and come into the parlor.
There’s wine and talk. No need for a fire.
Let the breeze carry me out the open window.”
“Feed the cat and come into the parlor.
There’s wine and talk. No need for a fire.
Let the breeze carry me out the open window.”
on the passing of Donald Hall, a poem by Susan Lindquist - 6/24/2018
I love poetry. I'll never profess to be any good at it, but I love it. I love words. I love expression. I love the voice that can come to a written piece when it's read aloud. I've written a lot of what I call 'poetry' over the years, but have found myself in a drought for words since the passing of my Dad, Richard W. Miller. Today, on reading of the death of one of my poetic inspirations, the gates opened, if only for a few moments.
For more on one of America's finest poets ... https://lithub.com/donald-hall-poet-of-eagle-pond-farm/
