Spells: New and Selected Poems

Stone and Cloth and Paper

7 stone​and​cloth​and​PaPer At every gust the dead leaves fall —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Rainy Day” Two​close​centuries​of​stone​and​cloth​and​paper chalked​your​cheeks​and​carved​your​hands​to​broken. You​are​not​a​monument​any​more,​now— more​like​a​forest moving​shadows​under​simple​trees,​dark​rivulets mottling​snow​fading​in​this​warm​gray​winter, melting​the​centuries​you​didn’t​know,​Henry​Longfellow— wait—I​can​hear​you— a​low​and​earnest​voice,​wind​in​fir​trees,​burning through​this​room,​where​you​wrote​your​saddest​poem, through​this​house,​where​the​farm​and​family​built​you. Your​sister​Ann’s​portrait stumbles,​eyes​black​as​night​behind​a​candle. The​marble​urn​in​your​red​brick​yard​has​fallen, knocked​down​in​the​emptiness​of​the​fountain. Cries​of​the​seagulls reach​through​walls​to​find​you​again,​pour​down the​carrying​knowledge​that​grew​your​branching​gardens— and​tell​me​which​old​words,​which​new​wings,​will​carry you​from​this​courtyard. ...