Nostalgia - Elaine Watkins

[Larry Robinson]

Nostalgia

 

What can I tell you about these days

when someday you will ask for stories?

Shall I describe the undulating whirr of crickets

along the forest road where your grandfather and I 

pick blackberries in the long autumn shadows?

The cows low back and forth

to one another in late afternoon, but in the morning

it’s chickens cackling at the nearby farm, 

heralding that their eggs have been laid.

We buy those eggs in the mercantile

and love the glossy orange yolks, waiting to be broken

and spill across a white plate.

 

Or perhaps I could tell you of the old forest

where we hunt mushrooms—chanterelles and lobsters

now that fall has arrived.

The cinnamon smell of dust on fir needles

and the knobby bumps on undersides of

browning fern fronds as we crunch through the woods,

daydreaming recipes for our harvest.

 

Last night it rained, the first time this September.

The wind blew sideways and all night we could hear

waves crashing on the beach. 

The air is warm and salty, carrying a river

of moisture to us when we most need it,

slaking the forest’s thirst and calling back the salmon.

 

I know there are those who cry their jeremiads, 

say the world is ending, lament everything that is past

and remembered with such beautiful and blind nostalgia.

But I would say to you that these days are irreplaceable

as well and not to be so lightly dismissed.

For one, you are here now

and so am I still.

The day beckons us to cast our lines into the river, 

seek the flash of silver beneath the surface, 

then return home to cook together and listen

for the rain.



	- Elaine Watkins

 
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.sonic.net/pipermail/poetrylovers/attachments/20211002/54561986/attachment.htm>