Should the Fox Come Again to My Cabin
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 across the white houses and mowed lawns, has go a gilt leaf-embossed globe, the brook runs molten, Practise you know that your own figure, as Midas-touched equally a Klimt painting, most indistinguishable from the whole of it — Or is information technology that your body, out of time, is merged into eternity? with faith and then shaky information technology vibrates like a plucked wire. your disappearing holds off for a while. Just see how, even in this present, the mode, above you, the crows are winging home once again, calling to each other,
here y'all are once again, out in your chiliad at dusk, a golden calorie-free draping itself
the house-alpine maple, greenish and rust in ordinary light,
the clouds themselves glow gold every bit the sky yous used to imagine.
has go role of that mural falling around you,
as if eternity itself were existence captivated into your mortal torso?
Yous have been looking for a reason for your continued existence,
Such moments of glory must be plenty. As y'all search them out again, once more,
as you stand up there, the past flies into the time to come,
vanishing above the trees into the night-gathering sky.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
And the morning opens like a blue glory bloom on a vine. I want to be like the depths The song I need to make it through today and keeps me from reaching out in sorrow. Therefore I sing along and choose * All dark, dreams came to rest in placidity, The nighttime nurtured them with its stars * I feel the floor trembling Inheritance and genealogy and the rain disappears into puddles. just I resist. * fragments that cannot be put together. I cannot take it in — bigger than the listen What can information technology hateful? I mean everything. * I tin never exist close enough to the earth — * * * clatter of hours, the hammers of morning, * Who hears voices when no one is in that location?
Fragmenting
The business organisation conversations of the birds,
chitterings among the low bushes.
beyond the petals where everything is burning.
falls on my head softly like the smallest pebbles
amongst the many notes.
unfolding into a kind of truth.
They shaped who I am.
equally I turned to the wall.
and the circle beneath my feet.
on the curb talking
I desire to migrate off to slumber
So it floats me into its arms.
golden fish shimmering in a cyberspace,
can keep at once.
The lake at twilight, the lightning,
all the machinery effectually me?
Words keep walking across the page
and a covey of doves scatters upwardly.
its vulnerable torso, its near silent eye,
so many souls riding on it.
so comes the sweet relief.
Who is listening then?
roar of garbage compactors in the complex,
the women ascent, the women sewing.
Do you even hear me?
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Without my hearing aids, the mean solar day seems so nevertheless, Yesterday a friend showed me her new poem: Simply last week, Roger'southward ashes sat on a demote Past which I meant the largeness was his spirit. was standing outside myself Now the clock that leans on the shelf higher up the table I just want to sleep and sleep more, and so more. On YouTube I mind to scientists, Can I hope anyhow? I've read and read once more Seven hares running to what end, for what reason?
A Week Later on His Funeral
light washes the windows all yellowish
like the eye of my cat who snoozes on his wicker chair.
7 hares running around a jar or an urn
the way they might take done in ancient Hellenic republic.
in the funeral home, in a stainless steel urn
and I thought he's too large to be contained at that place.
The wake a nifty sadness.
Someone who seemed to exist me
watching me comfort his daughter,
his two sons, moving around in a mist.
is telling its silent numbers to the room. O two, three, four.
Drapes hang heavy with grit, I must launder them.
What does this world mean anyway
so pocket-sized in this countless universe?
the many who say in that location is no existence after.
Stephen Hawking says we are only computers.
the few letters I kept from the great many Roger sent me.
And stared at the photographs, trying to bring him back.
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: Early on Nov, leaves on the ground, Only my own thoughts accompany me, stretching out across the fallen garden, The yr has turned gray and aureate and is hung with webs.
Only the green and black winter, the day
Waking from sleep like a ghost
a white phantom in common cold garments.
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.
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
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.
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 I retrieve it must exist morn there, the air moist on my arms,
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.
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
I don't call back I think the way someone listens or as though I were inhabiting the seasons When I remember, sometimes information technology is and the ground rings with dampness, I call back with my peel open like the frog hard on the paper where they are malleable, but moving freely — his optics quick I think in tortoise-time,
How This Poet Thinks
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.
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 —
between winter and spring,
betwixt summer and fall —
finding those in-between places
that need me to name them.
like objects rushing through a tunnel,
and sometimes
it is like water in a well with clay sides,
where the wetness is completely absorbed
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.
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
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
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.
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
It was already too late
Lightning Spreads Out Beyond the H2o
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
It may be part water, role animal —
Watching Light in the Field
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
Over my head, the roofmen are banging shingles into identify In the terminate, I will have something to evidence for their hard labor — In another state, a friend tries to keep on living and, virtually his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms We go along. I don't know how sometimes. for some sign that life is more than disaster — across the sacrifices of the trunk. Necessary light. of their labor, beneath concentric circles: a roof of sky, And don't those journeymen nailing each down, firmly, deeply.
Roofmen
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past autumn, and bright as copper foil.
unflappable shingles, dry ceilings, one more measure of things
held safely in a globe where safety is incommunicable.
though his arteries are chock-full,
though the operation left a ten-inch scar
like a deformed bloom. His knees and feet
fire with constant pain.
For a living, I mind eight hours a day to the voices
of the anxious and the sad. I watch their beautiful faces
it is ever in that location, the spirit behind the suffering,
the small light that gathers the soul and holds it
I curve toward it and blow gently.
And those hammerers above me bend into the dailiness
beneath the roof of the universe,
below what vaults over information technology.
concord a piece of the answer — the manner they go on
laying ane gray speckled foursquare after another,
from Necessary Calorie-free, Utah State Academy Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
The bat veered erratically over us A thing and then dark, information technology seemed connected to pass the good food, And, for all that social club, I
First Dark with Strangers
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.
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 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.
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
I saw the fox running by the side of the road
The Undeniable Pressure level of Existence
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
Take a simple thing similar pistachios.
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
He lifts his violin and gives us the fox and I am dorsum in Connemara where fifty-fifty where in that location are no trees to cease it rollicks his young intense face as his arm jigs and swings and the fox is running with such joy along that cliff plum-blue ocean and a human'south foot measuring time
The Composer Says This Is How Nosotros Should Live Our Lives
in Ireland running with wild carelessness
along the cliff-border above the wild Irish Sea
the pasture stones have names and the light-green
slopes are plentiful with stones and the sea-current of air
across the commonage and the sea is a wild rolling
and the composer'southward chocolate-brown hair is whipping around
the bow across the strings and his trunk is swaying
and his shoulders are leaping and the music is leaping
cerise fox brilliant dark-green pasture cerulean sky
and the wind and the white-capped
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
you lot will want to take with you the mud-rich scent sliced on a blue plate, their pinwheels of low-cal from the farmer's dark fields, and the sleepy kid you will desire to take the i-eyed horse that was never yours you found crossing the hard route and could not save. blue/blackness/grays of the lake shining beneath coins of silver yous will attempt to take a prayer you might have otherwise you have been calling back — but yous will soon forget when you lot go, you will leave the Giants cap you lot wore blanket the books you meant to read, the books themselves the suitcases and tote bag in the overcrowded closet more than you ever did. leave your tickets, and your Primary Accuse of what you lot've always been told. therefore take nothing place your pulse on the tabular array, release breath. leave backside the scars
Wherever you are going
breaking through March frost, and lemons
you will desire to accept strawberries you accept stolen
yous lifted from under the willow where she'd been playing
and the obstinate cat that was, and the turtle with the cracked shell
you will want, especially, to bring with you the shifting
and all that lives deeper in that location beneath the mysteries of water
left backside in example you need it — and a memory of the love
to dinner behind for the others, you will leave dust
weighing down the shelves. information technology will be necessary to go out
and your two rooms for someone who wants them
with its lamentable residuum — you won't be coming dorsum regardless
take less than nothing and even less than that. remove your shoes
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, over the pelting and the beyond and under the suitcases of the heart, Hither within at the table, at that place exterior the circus, between the marshland sedges, around the edges Of energy and intelligence, Ahead of the storm and the river, behind the storm and the river. Above the wheelbarrows and the chickens. against the framework of all the holy books. Apropos the invisible, and unnamable ability, considering the spirit, Considering if not God, then what in identify of about the firebombed willow, beside the all the same waters and the loud waters
in the heaven itself,
over there among the beach plum hedges,
beyond the beyond of,
from the back burners of the universe.
within the halls of absence,
across the hanging gardens of the wind,
of alpine buildings going up
and brusque buildings coming down.
of energy — and if non intelligence then what?
Prior to the beginning of dust, unto the end of fire.
Underneath the fast heart of the sparrow,
on peak of the slow heart of the bounding main —
Despite the dogmas that pelting downwards on the centuries.
in spite of the terror
because of something in the body that wants to be lifted.
beneath the quilt that tosses the dead to the heaven,
and among the walking among?
from Then, Something, Tupelo Press, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
They are what fuels the nighttime, what lies And this also: what whoops out You tin see them from the corner of your heart,
Alternate Worlds
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.
from the wood, the claws
of moles in their tunnels, the moon's
long fingers trailing across cheekbones,
the breath dispersed into ether.
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 — long by his cursory moment in the world. Not for me the altar rails or the intonations No, this is the trunk — this mount laurel that failed to survive New England winters — of blowing across the field and this, also, And this is claret — the wild grapes clinging and this too, loftier-bush-league blueberry whose bright And hither is New England aster, its flowers
the twinflower for instance he named for himself,
Linnaea Borealis, its fragile bells ringing
Or smoothen sumac for making ink, for spilling
on the folio, for keeping what might be lost.
of the priest. Not the vessel lifted upward,
nor the disc similar a diatom on the tongue.
it is forbidden to pick, its blossoms like lights
confronting the dark wood, or the crimson mulberry
someone'south dream of silk that didn't come to pass.
And this is the body, the common milkweed'southward clouds
what is left behind — the dried husk. And this
is the torso — lobelia whose name fills my oral cavity.
to the wall behind which the traffic
of the interstate rushes with a river-sound —
gems get together a sheen of morn dew, their stain
on my willing natural language.
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
It is the gnawing within the silence Once in a dream, the trees in a peach orchard Now, the current of air from the hurricane The wind finds its own place Summer is dying and I abound closer
Hunger
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
In the long July evenings,
The Invitee
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
After all day walking the Vermont craft fair in the sun while my shadow preceded me forth the grassy aisles where the breathy music of the accordion player floated I drove home and my shadow rode beside me collection lazily then my shadow disappeared into the brown carpet but now through the due east window evening approaches and I beckon it to enter me until I am one with information technology at concluding
Shadow at Evening
later on the goat-milk soaps and rose-scented sachets
the bright pottery stalls and the wooden animals
and disappeared reappeared as I moved in and out
of the shadows of maples and gray ash copse
where the field was vibrant with color and motion
stalls of candles relishes and pickles cotton wool candy in plastic sleeves
watching the Green Mountains pass outside the windows
habitation to my own small cache of solitude and grace
disappeared into the bookshelves and the books
I never missed it only just continued on with my quiet life
but at present nighttime is knocking against the long shadows
of the street lamp every bit my shadow rises mysterious and compliant
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
Source: http://authormark.com/artman2/publish/Innisfree_29PATRICIA_FARGNOLI.shtml
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