December 7: Peter Cooley, a Poem, a Wasp

NOTE:  This post was written on December 7.

This P.O.E.T.S. Day Eve, I have another Christmas poem for you.  Actually, it’s more of an Advent or winter solstice kind of poem.  It’s by a poet named Peter Cooley, who was born in Detroit and teaches at Tulane University in New Orleans.  This particular poem is from Cooley’s book Nightseasons, and I simply love its darkness and light.  It reminds me of how important the small moments of life are:  a daughter’s hug, a son’s sneeze, a wife’s sleeping arm around your waist.

Those are the holiest of moments, when Saint Marty can sense the finger of God touching his every breath.

To a Wasp Caught in the Storm Sash at the Advent of the Winter Solstice

Terrorless, I awake.

This is the darkest night

the year can turn to

and I, in the middle of my life,

float upon it, twilight,

from sleep deeper than drifts

canceling rockwall, fence and hill,

all neighbors beyond the window.

Soon gifts will come,

and then good wine and talk

pour through the adjoining rooms

while fires bank and fall.

But now, inside this moment,

between the cerulean panes,

your wizened, tiny, moronic

St. Vitus’ wiggle

draws the night sky down around it.

What brings your rasping to this edge

between one blue world and the next?

My face warping the glass?

My soul against your song?

A great poet