Mary Newell
Amicably, Shooting Stars, Our Trace
after Edna St. Vincent Millay Fatal Interview, “Sonnet lXV”
Our fate is sealed, however we protest
with flashy slogans, picket, do our best -
exempt ourselves from bio-history
we can’t, blocked by the dark mystery.
Yet for a while we held the clock hands still.
Full throttle, drank love to our fill -
fast train, no stops, but time to see
each passing town in quiet or revelry.
This can I claim, though subject to decay:
the shooting stars we launched won’t fade away.
Although we’re speeding towards a tunnel deep,
one moment more, these amulets we’ll keep.
The infinite dark will shroud us, will erase
our countenance, but not our loving’s trace.
Trickster Nature
after Edna St. Vincent Millay The Harp-Weaver, “Sonnet XXIX”
An optimist in spring, I plant more seeds:
the birds and squirrels take some for their needs.
In summer, a realist, I water and till,
and pick ripe greens we relish to our fill.
In fall, I plan a tasty harvest meal:
we’ll feast on all the groundhog doesn’t steal.
A skeptic in winter, the cornucopia consumed
and darkness shrouds the heaven that I assumed.
If we were sure, more comfort it might be
as we slide closer to infinity.
Meanwhile we look to arts, faiths, company
to find a sense of reciprocity.
For nature as metaphor hides its sting -
its winter’s always followed by some spring.
A Glimpse from Slippage
after Edna St. Vincent Millay The Harp-Weaver, “Sonnet XXIX”
An optimist in morning as the sun
ignites the chloroplasts again - we breathe!
Although I know of downstream toxic flows,
I reassure myself that nature works.
The mountains in the distance better stand
for surety than leaves that brown and droop.
Not seen from here: erosion, borers, moths -
yet leaves compost to nourish growth in spring.
The planet stumbles through another year.
Meanwhile, my loves and occupations disappear.
For entropy wins, though beauty and truth
flash through the flood plain now and then -
a kiss exchanged, a promise carried out
but then we vanish, into earth or star.
Beguiled I was a warbler, circling free -
not a leaf clutching to a threatened tree.