–after “Independent People”, Halldor Laxness
Another blizzard obliterates the moor. Chimney smoke
backs up, fills a dark chilly evening
held indoors by sod. The grandmother coughs and knits. If the drudgery of a place such as this
managed to find its first publisher during our ownvideo-clipped moment, who’d
follow the icy river its full length? Where’s the kickin sick sheep, torn rags, an ocean
no lead character gets to cross? Children wander offand don’t necessarily return. No one
blames anyone. No one blames the pitfalls of the moor.Even a name may be left to the wind.
Summers burst with wildflowers and greenery.
Stars pierce quintessential black.
Poems are born, whispered, mumbled, sung.Fair maiden poems. Poems
about castles across the ocean in heavenly lands.This book is a reprint after silence,
a resurrection that recalls the earth as powerwe do not remember, cannot pass on.
