This will be a Merton-less post. Too tired for much reflection tonight.
It has been a busy day. I woke this morning to about five or six inches of snow. A storm blew in overnight. After a week or so of spring weather, greening grass, fifty-degree days, winter returned with a vengeance. Wet and heavy as a load of laundry.
Church in the morning. Grocery shopping in the afternoon. Cooked dinner. Met with my book club. Flight of the Diamond Smugglers by my friend Matt Frank. Then, I led a poetry workshop. Got done a little after 9 p.m.
I'm beat. But, I wanted to share something I wrote this evening. Not sure if it counts as a poem.
Saint Marty is not quite ready to face another week.
Reading Yellow Dog
by: Martin AchatzIt sits on the top shelf, left-hand side, first
stack. Its cover antique yellow, a Daguerreotype
book--something that would look natural
in a Mathew Brady Civil War photo, ground
strewn with wounded, dead. I can imagine
it in the white fingers of a fallen soldier, clutched
like the picture of a wife or girlfriend. These poems,
simple as birch bark, profound as sparrow song, fill
me with feelings I haven't experienced in 40 or more
years, sitting in front of a potbellied stove, reading
Conan and Red Sonja comic books with my sisters,
hearing something large and black nose through
the garbage in the dark outside.
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