Status Updates From Earth Hour

Seven Faces of the Die

'Inner City'

Dot Poem, the Connections

Enjoying the change of pace, the ambiguity and space for interpretation.

The sounds of the poems are gorgeous when read aloud to my cat :)

I highly recommend reading other books from the author of your next English book in order to impress the teacher and look like a suck up

There is law enough all about us
in almanack and season, anniversary
days come round, the round earth's carnivale
of chimes and recessionals.
Good to be included
there. Good also what is not
fixed or sure even,
the second breath of being
here when the May-bush
snows in mid-September, as giddy
happenstance leads us
this way into
a lost one's arms, or that way
deeper into the maze.

But a pencil line
on a blank page will conjure
space, volume, prospective
horizons to make for.
Kids' stuff but a beginning.
Between our fingers
and the stars all the room
in the world.

The planet, saved for another day, stokes up
its slow-burning gases and toxic dust, gold rift and scarlet
gash that take our breath away; a world at its interminable
show of holy dying. And we go with it, the old
gatherer and hunter. To its gaudy-day, though the contribution
is small, adding our handsel of warm clay.

But here we call it Spring, when a young man’s fancy turns,
fitfully, lightly, to idling in the sun,
to touching in the dark. And the old man's?
To worms in their garden box; stepping aside
a moment in a poem that will remember,
fitfully, who made it and the discord
and stammer, and change of heart and catch of breath
it sprang from. A bending down
lightly to touch the earth.

This is the
day,
we tell ourselves, that will not end, and
stroll
enchanted through its moods as if we
shared
its gift and were immortal, till
something in us
snaps, a spring, a nerve. There is more
to darkness
than nightfall.