Friday, April 23, 2010

Weekly Worded










Why Mallory Fell

Even at a distance
Everest explains nothing.
What it wants

is not to be there,
sticking its 29,000 feet
into the thin air.

What it wants
is to be done with snow
that keeps falling.

Glaciers so old
gravity lies down
to count the stars.

What it wants
is not to be blamed
another hundred years.

The moon is Everest's kin,
nothing else so close
as to understand

how the largest
ambition is to
be small.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Galactic Tourism

Tomorrow we’ll drive
to the crater where 50,000 years ago
a meteor struck the earth.

There’s no reason to rush.
Sleep late, eat a hearty breakfast
then get on the road

so we arrive at the visitor center
before noon. Who cares if the weather
reports cloudy.

We’ll be standing at the edge
of a moment as if the day
just arrived -- the sun

temporarily obscured --
with the two of us so close to being
vaporized, thinking

WoW with capital letters
on both ends and a smaller o
seven hundred feet below.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Community Service


Nobody knows
where driveway gravel goes.
Every spring another load,
cash for stone
spread out to fill the holes.
By the next spring only mud shows.
A few pebbles in the grass
to be flung at window glass
by the lawn mower.
Little else.
Supposedly it sinks
into the soft ground,
gets caught in that enormous convection
between the earth’s core
and this melting snow.
Nobody knows.
It could be
thanks to people like me
the path to hell is being paved.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Weekly Worded

















The Way of the Cross
(for T.S. Eliot)

If wind can be said to moan
then sadness slips into my house
between the window frames.

Snow plasters the screen
so I can’t see out. It’s Good Friday,
a raw day for moveable feasts.

In St. Louis where T.S. was born
there’s flooding. In England where
he lived and converted, eternal doubt.

In Westminster, no matter how quiet,
the usual whisper, that April
is the cruelest month,

but it’s only one out of twelve,
an abridged Stations of the Cross
devoted instead to our

procession of days,
where weather always wants in
while the soul only wants out.