Once when I tried to get my grandmother to tell me about their life then, she brushed aside my questions and showed me instead her two new Sunday hats with gloves to match: one set was lime-green and one was lavender. She was more about now than about then. And I suppose that is a healthy attitude. But I am still curious about then,
Here is another poem by my new enthusiasm, James Galvin.
In regard to their own movement
The stars we track have no inkling.
They're just burning.
Is the willow less in winter?
God's a far cry and busy
Counting dead ants, dead stars.
In regard to its own movement the willow tree
Knows less and less.
Now and then now and then
I forget what I am saying
To myself, often
When you touch me,
Even if we are just wandering down this street
On the surface of a planet
Turning through the fire.
from Elements, Copper Canyon Press, 1988, page 17.
Like Czeslaw, JG capitalizes the initial letter of each line. I am becoming convinced that this is an interesting thing to do.
Turning through the fire. . .