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Tuesday, May 14, 2013


Stephen Aldrich
Karen Rickel


It is sweetest right next to the sky.
Just before you cross the line.

The air is limpid.
The sea has forgotten
About waves for a few hours.

Words have tracks
As we talk.  They look
Like tiny wrens, full of
Close shadings, a bright beak
Flashes; hard to see when
We’re in the woods.

Nothing has a surface.
We are inside of everything.

I was hoping you wouldn’t
Get this far with this poem.
I was hoping the images would
Continue on their own and make
A story for you, elicit a sensation
That would capture you,
Provide some transportation.

Instead, here I am alone
With you, amazed at the color
Of the sky, the way the breeze tricks
It’s way through Summer,
The kind of quiet, working
Like this precipitates.

Before you go, one Summer when
I was about eight years old,
My father stopped the car as dark 
Was coming.  While the children and
my mother watched, he walked into a
Small woods near Lake Ontario
To catch fireflies for us to see up close.
The woods were a great flashing field
Filled with millions of lights, millions.
I have never seen anything like that
Evening ever since then, until now.

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