Should the Fox Come Again to My Cabin

A CLOSER LOOK: Patricia Fargnoli

I tin can never exist close enough to the earth—
its vulnerable body, its almost silent centre,
so many souls riding on information technology.

Patricia Fargnoli writes close to our domicile, this earth, and to all of the states who love, grieve, and die within its "silence of the cherry blossoms," its "skittering of wind-diddled snow." In her gorgeous, contemplative articulations of sorrow, of longing and loneliness, she leaves us whispering to ourselves, yes, yes, that's the way it is.

A retired social worker, Patricia Fargnoli published her beginning book of poetry, Necessary Light (Utah State University Press, 1999), when she was 62. Since and so she'southward published iv additional collections, near recently, Hallowed: New and Selected Poems (Tupelo Press, 2017). Her other books are Winter (Hobblebush Books, 2013), runner-up for the Jacar Book Printing Prize;And then, Something (Tupelo Press, 2005), winner of the ForeWord Magazine Silver Poesy Book of the Year Award, co-winner of the New England Poesy Society'southward Shelia Motton Book Award, and honorable mention for the Erik Hoffer Awards; andDuties of the Spirit (Tupelo Press, 2001), winner of the 2005 Jane Kenyon Literary Award for an Outstanding Book of Poesy.

She served as the New Hampshire poet laureate from 2006 to 2009 and was past acquaintance editor of theWorcester Review. She has taught at the Frost Place Poetry Festival, the New Hampshire Institute of Art, the Lifelong Learning program of Keene State College, and privately. Awards include an honorary BFA from The New Hampshire Plant of Arts and a MacDowell fellowship. Her piece of work has appeared in anthologies such equally theEcopoetry Anthology and Garrison Keillor'southGood Poems, and in such journals as Verse, Ploughshares, North American Review, Harvard Review, Alaska Quarterly, andPrairie Schooner. She resides in Walpole, New Hampshire.

Selected Poems by Patricia Fargnoli

To an Old Woman Standing in October Light

Better to just admit information technology, time has gotten abroad from you lot, and yet
here y'all are once again, out in your chiliad at dusk, a golden calorie-free draping itself

across the white houses and mowed lawns,
the house-alpine maple, greenish and rust in ordinary light,

has go a gilt leaf-embossed globe, the brook runs molten,
the clouds themselves glow gold every bit the sky yous used to imagine.

Practise you know that your own figure, as Midas-touched equally a Klimt painting,
has go role of that mural falling around you,

most indistinguishable from the whole of it —
as if eternity itself were existence captivated into your mortal torso?

Or is information technology that your body, out of time, is merged into eternity?
Yous have been looking for a reason for your continued existence,

with faith and then shaky information technology vibrates like a plucked wire.
Such moments of glory must be plenty. As y'all search them out again, once more,

your disappearing holds off for a while.  Just see how, even in this present,
as you stand up there, the past flies into the time to come,

the mode, above you, the crows are winging home once again, calling to each other,
vanishing above the trees into the night-gathering sky.

from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Fragmenting

And the morning opens like a blue glory bloom on a vine.
The business organisation conversations of the birds,
chitterings among the low bushes.

I want to be like the depths
beyond the petals where everything is burning.

The song I need to make it through today
falls on my head softly like the smallest pebbles

and keeps me from reaching out in sorrow.

Therefore I sing along and choose
amongst the many notes.

*

All dark, dreams came to rest in placidity,
unfolding into a kind of truth.
They shaped who I am.

The nighttime nurtured them with its stars
equally I turned to the wall.

*

Afterward rain begins.

I feel the floor trembling
and the circle beneath my feet.

Inheritance and genealogy
on the curb talking

and the rain disappears into puddles.
I desire to migrate off to slumber

just I resist.
So it floats me into its arms.

*

Reality shifts similar a hundred
golden fish shimmering in a cyberspace,

fragments that cannot be put together.

I cannot take it in — bigger than the listen
can keep at once.

What can information technology hateful? I mean everything.
The lake at twilight, the lightning,
all the machinery effectually me?

*

Once broken, things remain broken.
Words keep walking across the page
and a covey of doves scatters upwardly.

I tin never exist close enough to the earth —
its vulnerable torso, its near silent eye,
so many souls riding on it.

*

Some days I am all habits and compulsions
so comes the sweet relief.

*

What if there is no choice?
Who is listening then?

*

All is vision and sound:
roar of garbage compactors in the complex,

clatter of hours, the hammers of morning,
the women ascent, the women sewing.

*

Who hears voices when no one is in that location?
Do you even hear me?

from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


A Week Later on His Funeral

Without my hearing aids, the mean solar day seems so nevertheless,
light washes the windows all yellowish
like the eye of my cat who snoozes on his wicker chair.

Yesterday a friend showed me her new poem:
7 hares running around a jar or an urn
the way they might take done in ancient Hellenic republic.

Simply last week, Roger'southward ashes sat on a demote
in the funeral home, in a stainless steel urn
and I thought he's too large to be contained at that place.

Past which I meant the largeness was his spirit.
The wake a nifty sadness.
Someone who seemed to exist me

was standing outside myself
watching me comfort his daughter,
his two sons, moving around in a mist.

Now the clock that leans on the shelf higher up the table
is telling its silent numbers to the room. O two, three, four.
Drapes hang heavy with grit, I must launder them.

I just want to sleep and sleep more, and so more.
What does this world mean anyway
so pocket-sized in this countless universe?

On YouTube I mind to scientists,
the many who say in that location is no existence after.
Stephen Hawking says we are only computers.

Can I hope anyhow? I've read and read once more
the few letters I kept from the great many Roger sent me.
And stared at the photographs, trying to bring him back.

Seven hares running to what end, for what reason?
Seven yellowish pairs of eyes at the window.
Seven stabbing  shafts of midday lite.

from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017

Glosa, Four Months after Your Death

after Pablo Neruda

Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is hither:
Only the green and black winter, the day
Waking from sleep like a ghost
a white phantom in common cold garments.

Early on Nov, leaves on the ground,
the migrating birds gone from the trees,
shrill jay in the maple, his unanswered call.
I am lonely hither among the littered fans
of the gingko, the hostas' dried stalks,
alone equally if waiting for you to announced
from wherever you have gone,
but there is only the silence, a grayness atmosphere.
Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here.

Only my own thoughts accompany me,
merely the unresponsive sky, its silence of clouds
always drifting n with the wind, and one
by one, disappearing every bit though year after twelvemonth
was passing in procession, each loss making way
for the side by side and the adjacent.
The hours are sullen and chill.
I get together the textile of my coat to my body,
knowing I am not just alone, but alone volition stay.
But the green and black wintertime, the day

stretching out across the fallen garden,
the aforementioned garden that comes at night after night in dream,
as though the remnants of ruin were haunting me,
the Eden after the autumn from grace,
all brier and weed, so I understand
that what could be kept has been diminished,
that everything perfect already had been lost.
I hold onto life similar a biting hope that has some expert in it
and walk here similar a first woman as if waking, an innermost
waking from sleep like a ghost.

The yr has turned gray and aureate and is hung with webs.
Somehow I have become an old woman without meaning to.
These are the rickety days of little substance, the mind
gone blurry, the ears deafened,  the damaged middle,
even the gustatory modality of lemons dull on my natural language.
Zero anymore, not even my emotions, is intense.
I have given up waiting for you to come up to me
in whatever form you might take. I take given up watching.
All drabbed down, I am full of your absence:
a white phantom in cold garments.


from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Memory

after a photograph by Yako Ma

I remember
the absolute silence of the cherry blossoms
over the small emerald river in the countryside,
the serenity countryside somewhere in Nihon.
And the way the emerald water too held
the milky white reflection of the heaven
and the dark shadows the cherry copse cast there
where a single rowboat was pulled upwards parallel to the banking company
as I sabbatum a long manner off in another country,
another century, looking down on the scene.

I retrieve it must exist morn there, the air moist on my arms,
the pocket-sized path that runs along the river, empty
but waiting for someone, a monk mayhap,
to arrive in his orange robe —
a monk deep in a meditation walk,
and he doesn't know I am watching him
from my reverse and far edge of the world.
However here I am with all my senses open,
taking in his walk, the river, the rowboat,
and the carmine copse in blossom
such as I've never seen in my own life.
And wishing to go in that oarless rowboat
somewhere deeper into this quiet
that I can almost remember.
How gently flowing my mind feels now —
like the minor river
or an unfolding cherry blossom.


from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017

Reincarnate

I desire to come back as that ordinary
garden snail, carting my brown-striped spiral crush
onto the mushroom which has sprouted
after overnight rain so I tin stretch
my tentacles toward the slightly drooping
and pimpled raspberry, sweet and pulsing —
a pollex that bends on its stalk from the crown
of small leaves, weighed downward by the almost
translucent shining drop of dew I have
been reaching and reaching toward my whole life.


from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


How This Poet Thinks

I don't call back
similar lawyers, quick in the mind,
rapid as a rat-a-tat-tat,
or academics, who pile logic upwards
like woods to get them through the winter.

I think the way someone listens
in a still place for the audio of quiet —
or the manner my body sways
at the transition zone, back and forth
betwixt field and woods — a witching stick —

or as though I were inhabiting the seasons
between winter and spring,
betwixt summer and fall —
finding those in-between places
that need me to name them.

When I remember, sometimes information technology is
like objects rushing through a tunnel,
and sometimes
it is like water in a well with clay sides,
where the wetness is completely absorbed

and the ground rings with dampness,
becomes a changed thing.
Other times
it is the way sea fog rises off
the swelling green of the ocean
and covers everything but illuminates itself.

I call back with my peel open like the frog
who takes in the rain by osmosis.
I delve into the groundhog holes
where no words follow.
Slow, so slow I remember, and cannot hold
the thoughts except when they come downwardly

hard on the paper where they are malleable,
tin can be shifted, worked at similar clay.
I think like this: with my brain stalk,
and with the site of emotions
the style I imagine the fox thinks,
trapped in his present need

but moving freely — his optics quick
toward the solar day'due south desire —
and the mode, below the surface
of the water, the swimmer's legs hang down
above the tendrils of the jelly fish
which wave in the filtered light.

I think in tortoise-time,
dream-time, limbic time,
similar a waterfall, a moth's wing,
like snow — that soundless, that white.

from Necessary Lite, Utah State University Press, 1999, and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Lightning Spreads Out Beyond the H2o

It was already too late
when the swimmers began
to wade through the heavy
water toward shore,
the cloud'southward black greatcoat
flinging beyond the sun,
forked bolts blitzing
the blind ground,
splits and cracks
going their own easiest mode,
and with them, the adult female
in the purple tank accommodate,
the boy with the water-wings,
ane body and so another.
And this is nothing about God
but how Stone Swimming turned
at the height of the twenty-four hour period
to flashpoint and fire
stalking across the h2o,
climbing the beach
amid the screams
and the scent of burned skin
until twelve of them
curled lifeless on sand
or floated on the tipped
white caps of the surface,
and xx-two more
walked into the balance
of their lives
knowing what waits
in the clouds to merits them
is random —
that nothing can stop it,
that after the swimming
smooths to a stillness
that gives back,
equally though zippo could move it,
the vacant imponderable sky.

from Necessary Lite, Utah Country Academy Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017


Watching Light in the Field

It may be part water, role animal —
the light — the long flowing whole
of it, river-similar, almost feline,
shedding night, moving silent
and inscrutable into the early on forenoon,
drifting into the low fields,
gathering fullness, attaching itself
to thistle and sweetgrass,
the towering edge trees,
inheriting their green wealth —
blooming equally if this
were the only rightful occupation,
rising beyond itself, stretching out
to inhabit the whole landscape.
I think of illuminations, erasures,
how light informs united states of america, is enough
to guide united states of america.  How too much
tin can cause blindness.  I call up of memory —
what is lost to us, what we desire.
Past noon, nothing is exact,
everything diffused in the glare.
What cannot be seen intensifies:
rivulet of sweat beyond the cheekbone,
earthworm odor of soil and growing.
The field sways with confusion
of bird call, mewlings,
soft indecipherable mumblings.
But in the late afternoon, each stalk
and blade stands out and then sharp and articulate
I brainstorm to know my place among them.
Past sunset as it leaves —
gold-dusting the meadow-rue and hoary alyssum,
hauling its statuary cloak across the fences,
vaulting the triple-circumference
of hills — I am no longer lonely.

from Necessary Light, Utah Land Academy Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Roofmen

Over my head, the roofmen are banging shingles into identify
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past autumn, and bright as copper foil.

In the terminate, I will have something to evidence for their hard labor —
unflappable shingles, dry ceilings, one more measure of things
held safely in a globe where safety is incommunicable.

In another state, a friend tries to keep on living
though his arteries are chock-full,
though the operation left a ten-inch scar

and, virtually his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms
like a deformed bloom. His knees and feet
fire with constant pain.

We go along. I don't know how sometimes.
For a living, I mind eight hours a day to the voices
of the anxious and the sad. I watch their beautiful faces

for some sign that life is more than disaster —
it is ever in that location, the spirit behind the suffering,
the small light that gathers the soul and holds it

across the sacrifices of the trunk. Necessary light.
I curve toward it and blow gently.
And those hammerers above me bend into the dailiness

of their labor, beneath concentric circles: a roof of sky,
beneath the roof of the universe,
below what vaults over information technology.

And don't those journeymen
concord a piece of the answer — the manner they go on
laying ane gray speckled foursquare after another,

nailing each down, firmly, deeply.

from Necessary Calorie-free, Utah State Academy Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


First Dark with Strangers

The bat veered erratically over us
on that first nervous night,
while we ate, the twelve of united states of america, at long tables
in the iii-sided shed behind the lodge
protected from the summer rain —
which was hammering direct downward —
and the lightning.

A thing and then dark, information technology seemed
snipped from the burlap of shadow
high in the rafters above our candlelight.
Something not existent — a figment,
a frantic silhouette.
And all the while we
(who were non terribly disturbed)

connected to pass the good food,
connected to reach tentatively,
stranger to stranger.   Oh
we were jovial — we told jokes,
nosotros laughed, we cracked open the airtight
doors of ourselves to each other.

And, for all that social club, I
might accept missed information technology entirely —
so far above us information technology fluttered.
Seen/unseen. Seen/unseen.

from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


The Undeniable Pressure level of Existence

I saw the fox running by the side of the road
past the turned away brick faces of the condominiums
past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, disordered dull-haired
past Jim's Pizza, past the Launder-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the state road and he reached information technology and ran on
under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways,
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to do annihilation to aid him, certain he was across
whatever aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his optics fixed on some point ahead of him, some fierce
invisible vox, some possible salvation
in all this hopelessness, that merely he could see.

from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Pistachios

Take a simple thing similar pistachios.
Recall of them in their smooth chocolate-brown cases
or croaky open to white meat shiny as a tooth.
Or call back of them in ice cream, the light-green of mint
or leap or something more succulent,
an unnamable ecstasy.
Get into the nuttiness of them,
the unadorned goodness, then let the heed go
wherever it goes from in that location, to Romeo in the garden,
to the full brown nipples of Juliet. Let honey
come into it
as the raison d'etre for all Being,
and because
someone'south e'er starting a war, let state of war come into it,
though you wish information technology wouldn't.
Missiles over a ragged country;
worn-out people non turning dorsum
to sentry their homes on burn.
And from there become
to guns in the streets of our ain country
and murders in the parks where no 1 is safe,
to feeble attempts — pistols
that can be fired only by their owners —
as if that would be enough to end the killing.
Oh, simply Romeo
in the garden, in blueish, and the moon over.
Oh just Juliet on the balcony.
Oh but the strong vine
that tin hold a man climbing.
And pistachio ice cream,
a greenish you could die for.
And pistachios themselves,
the uncomplicated nourishment,
the hard welcome apple tree,
the fallen fruit.

from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


The Composer Says This Is How Nosotros Should Live Our Lives

He lifts his violin and gives us the fox
in Ireland running with wild carelessness
along the cliff-border above the wild Irish Sea

and I am dorsum in Connemara where fifty-fifty
the pasture stones have names and the light-green
slopes are plentiful with stones and the sea-current of air

where in that location are no trees to cease it rollicks
across the commonage and the sea is a wild rolling
and the composer'southward chocolate-brown hair is whipping around

his young intense face as his arm jigs and swings
the bow across the strings and his trunk is swaying
and his shoulders are leaping and the music is leaping

and the fox is running with such joy along that cliff
cerise fox brilliant dark-green pasture cerulean sky
and the wind and the white-capped

plum-blue ocean and a human'south foot measuring time
in the sun that is beyond brilliant and the fox is leaping
forward along the cliff-edge.

from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Printing, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Wherever you are going

you lot will want to take with you the mud-rich scent
breaking through March frost, and lemons

sliced on a blue plate, their pinwheels of low-cal
you will desire to accept strawberries you accept stolen

from the farmer's dark fields, and the sleepy kid
yous lifted from under the willow where she'd been playing

you will desire to take the i-eyed horse that was never yours
and the obstinate cat that was, and the turtle with the cracked shell

you found crossing the hard route and could not save.
you will want, especially, to bring with you the shifting

blue/blackness/grays of the lake shining beneath coins of silver
and all that lives deeper in that location beneath the mysteries of water

yous will attempt to take a prayer you might have otherwise
left backside in example you need it — and a memory of the love

you have been calling back — but yous will soon forget

when you lot go, you will leave the Giants cap you lot wore
to dinner behind for the others, you will leave dust

blanket the books you meant to read, the books themselves
weighing down the shelves. information technology will be necessary to go out

the suitcases and tote bag in the overcrowded closet
and your two rooms for someone who wants them

more than you ever did. leave your tickets, and your Primary Accuse
with its lamentable residuum — you won't be coming dorsum regardless

of what you lot've always been told. therefore take nothing
take less than nothing and even less than that. remove your shoes

place your pulse on the tabular array, release breath. leave backside the scars
on your finger, your thigh, the long one over your heart

from Then, Something, Tupelo Printing, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017

Prepositions Toward a Definition of God

Beneath of grade the heaven,
in the heaven itself,
over there among the beach plum hedges,

over the pelting and the beyond and
beyond the beyond of,

under the suitcases of the heart,
from the back burners of the universe.

Hither within at the table, at that place exterior the circus,
within the halls of absence,
across the hanging gardens of the wind,

between the marshland sedges, around the edges
of alpine buildings going up
and brusque buildings coming down.

Of energy and intelligence,
of energy — and if non intelligence then what?

Ahead of the storm and the river, behind the storm and the river.
Prior to the beginning of dust, unto the end of fire.

Above the wheelbarrows and the chickens.
Underneath the fast heart of the sparrow,
on peak of the slow heart of the bounding main —

against the framework of all the holy books.
Despite the dogmas that pelting downwards on the centuries.

Apropos the invisible, and unnamable ability,
in spite of the terror

considering the spirit,
because of something in the body that wants to be lifted.

Considering if not God, then what in identify of

about the firebombed willow,
beneath the quilt that tosses the dead to the heaven,

beside the all the same waters and the loud waters
and among the walking among?

from Then, Something, Tupelo Press, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Alternate Worlds

They are what fuels the nighttime, what lies
beyond the sheer curtains.
They are mysterious and hooded
like the woman in your dream, the hollow
before birth, what hides beneath the catafalque lid.

And this also: what whoops out
from the wood, the claws
of moles in their tunnels, the moon's
long fingers trailing across cheekbones,
the breath dispersed into ether.

You tin see them from the corner of your heart,
hear them hum in the background of everything.
Or, on a summer night, a huge moth,
white-winged, full of grace,
darts beyond your path — and is gone.

from Then, Something, Tupelo Press, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017


The Gifts of Linnaeus

after native New England plants named by Carl Linnaeus

What is sacrament if not to take in the names —
the twinflower for instance he named for himself,
Linnaea Borealis, its fragile bells ringing

long by his cursory moment in the world.
Or smoothen sumac for making ink, for spilling
on the folio, for keeping what might be lost.

Not for me the altar rails or the intonations
of the priest. Not the vessel lifted upward,
nor the disc similar a diatom on the tongue.

No, this is the trunk — this mount laurel
it is forbidden to pick, its blossoms like lights
confronting the dark wood, or the crimson mulberry

that failed to survive New England winters —
someone'south dream of silk that didn't come to pass.
And this is the body, the common milkweed'southward clouds

of blowing across the field and this, also,
what is left behind — the dried husk. And this
is the torso — lobelia whose name fills my oral cavity.

And this is claret — the wild grapes clinging
to the wall behind which the traffic
of the interstate rushes with a river-sound —

and this too, loftier-bush-league blueberry whose bright
gems get together a sheen of morn dew, their stain
on my willing natural language.

And hither is New England aster, its flowers
bluer than wine. Eat and drink, here, now,
on this giving globe, these sacraments.

from Then, Something, Tupelo Printing, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Hunger

It is the gnawing within the silence
of the deep trunk which is like
the pool a waterfall replenishes
but can never fill.
The watery room of the body
and its voices who telephone call and call
wanting something more, ever more.

Once in a dream, the trees in a peach orchard
called out proverb: Here, this bright fruit,
hold its roundness in your palm,
and I held one, wanting
the others I could non hold,
as the light fell through the trees,
one cascade after some other.

Now, the current of air from the hurricane
that veered out to sea
and the hard rain blow through the space
where yesterday men felled the bandbox,
its top and dazzler, for no expert reason.
Where information technology was, only emptiness remains,
and the stump level with the basis.

The wind finds its own place
and waits at that place holding its breath
for a moment, calling to no one,
surprising united states of america by its stillness,
surprising fifty-fifty the rain which comes in
to my house through the untidy gardens
where it has been sending its life breath
over the dying mint and claret-reddish daylilies.

Summer is dying and I abound closer
to the shadow moving toward me
like the small spiders
that inhabit and hunt in the corners.
And the wind stirs, rattles the panels
singing its own hunger, its own water song.

from Winter, Hobblebush Books, 2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


The Invitee

In the long July evenings,
the French adult female,
who came to stay every summer
for two weeks at my aunt's inn,
would row my brother and me
out to the middle of the mile-wide lake
so that the iii of us
would be surrounded by the wild
extravagance of reds that had transformed
both lake and heaven into fire.
It was the summer subsequently our female parent died.
I remember the dipping sound of the oars
and the sweet music of our voices as she led united states of america
in the songs she had taught us to love.
Blue Moon. Deep Purple.
Nosotros sang as she rowed, non e'er wondering
where she came from or why she was alone,
happy that she was willing to row us
out into all that beauty.

from Winter, Hobblebush Books, 2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


Shadow at Evening

After all day walking the Vermont craft fair in the sun
later on the goat-milk soaps and rose-scented sachets
the bright pottery stalls and the wooden animals

while my shadow preceded me forth the grassy aisles
and disappeared reappeared as I moved in and out
of the shadows of maples and gray ash copse

where the breathy music of the accordion player floated
where the field was vibrant with color and motion
stalls of candles relishes and pickles cotton wool candy in plastic sleeves

I drove home and my shadow rode beside me collection lazily
watching the Green Mountains pass outside the windows
habitation to my own small cache of solitude and grace

then my shadow disappeared into the brown carpet
disappeared into the bookshelves and the books
I never missed it only just continued on with my quiet life

but now through the due east window evening approaches
but at present nighttime is knocking against the long shadows
of the street lamp every bit my shadow rises mysterious and compliant

and I beckon it to enter me until I am one with information technology at concluding
and I allow the day to  close and dream to come up
permit the dream to rising from nowhere and come to me.


from Winter, Hobblebush Books,  2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017

Should the Play a joke on Come up Again to My Cabin in the Snowfall

And then, the winter will take fallen all in white

and the hill will be ascension to the n,
the night likewise rising and leaving,
dawn light but coming in, the burn out.

Down the colina running will come that flame
amid the dancing skeletons of the ash trees.

I volition leave the door open for him.

from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017


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Source: http://authormark.com/artman2/publish/Innisfree_29PATRICIA_FARGNOLI.shtml

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