That evening sun go down. . .

Today's walk; we took the long way, almost to the park. These skies are different every day.

And the sun goes down earlier in the Treasure Valley.

RUTH IN THE FIELDS

                                         two poems for my mother

1

Wind like a long question among us.

Even the pasture won't answer,

Remembering light that little by little

Evens the dusk, little by little crosses

The slow grass. Stars are migrants

Who pause at the river. They question the sky.

The breezes, like souls. Your mother

Sets down her bags to rest and fears nothing.

Blood still falls through her, still rises.

Touch her hand, stars blaze.

Touch her hand, light marbles.

2

Now wind, like a bird in flight, shifts

As if pausing inside a body.

In dreams, she walks among barley

Or wheat, blackbirds everywhere

On the ground, in flight. Or she's in a valley

Of poppies that are like red hands

Of the Lord, waving mildly. Now wind

Lets its wings down, through her hair.

Now she asks for water, still thirsty

From the last mornings of her life.

David Biespiel

Shattering Air; poems by David Biespiel,

BOA Editions, Ltd. 1996, page 57.

This poet is a recent discovery of mine, even though he has been around quite a while and has several books and a web presence. This is a two-part poem with one 11-line stanza and one ten-line stanza. The use of capital letters at the beginning of each line gives the poem a delicate formality that I like.

For the first time in a long while, I am thinking about a poem.

I am using this structure as inspiration.