In this poem, a dream about Niagara Falls,
a hope to be able to return there together,
as Leslie continues to struggle for health—
Why write poetry? The problem with prose
is the beginning, middle, end, sentences.
I never want life with you to end. I say:
We never took those dance lessons. The spin,
the dip. There’ll always be something not
yet done. One more trip to see the Falls fall.
I dreamed you said: Let’s go over together,
and I said: But I would die. Not you, not you,
in the dream, not you. We’ve had the talk
about ashes, named the north and south
rivers to be sprinkled with us like pollen,
specks to meet later in some thundercloud
bloom, zigzag, boom! If we see the Falls
again, you’ll flash your smile beside me
and not be pouring through my hands, dust
to sparkle up out of the mist, disembodied
eternal beautiful matter. But not you.
Minnie Bruce Pratt
Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivs
Creative Commons 2010
Showing posts with label Niagara Falls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Niagara Falls. Show all posts
3.18.2010
3.17.2010
“Niagara Falls”
This poem took a quick spring break to Buffalo and-
Rain came and folded up the snow, put it away
for the year except some pillows in the corners,
rain fell again with a crinkling sound, someone
wrapping flowers in cellophane, maybe pussy
willows, the blurred fur blooms like the slush,
blush of soap on the car windows, Delta car-
wash neon strobe-light joy ride I drove through
in the dead of winter just to hear water released,
like the cracked parched lips of frozen ground
parted to the thawing rain, yes, today what-was
is gone and what-will-be is pressing against us,
long fingers of rain in the dirt, the silver lines
in the furrowed fields, and we are pushing back
in the mud ruck, my fingers picking out letters
to track across the melting snow of the screen,
while somewhere further the water ladders
down the river shoals, maybe even leaps over
some world-famous falls to come around, to try
again to become a different element, electric
art, charged flow past resistance, lightning fire.
Minnie Bruce Pratt
Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivs
Creative Commons 2010
Rain came and folded up the snow, put it away
for the year except some pillows in the corners,
rain fell again with a crinkling sound, someone
wrapping flowers in cellophane, maybe pussy
willows, the blurred fur blooms like the slush,
blush of soap on the car windows, Delta car-
wash neon strobe-light joy ride I drove through
in the dead of winter just to hear water released,
like the cracked parched lips of frozen ground
parted to the thawing rain, yes, today what-was
is gone and what-will-be is pressing against us,
long fingers of rain in the dirt, the silver lines
in the furrowed fields, and we are pushing back
in the mud ruck, my fingers picking out letters
to track across the melting snow of the screen,
while somewhere further the water ladders
down the river shoals, maybe even leaps over
some world-famous falls to come around, to try
again to become a different element, electric
art, charged flow past resistance, lightning fire.
Minnie Bruce Pratt
Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivs
Creative Commons 2010
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