Inventing the Pedal-boat

It must have been late September,
Around the time when the first leaves
Begin to really change.
When grown men
And children alike
Stop and marvel at the color,
Forgetting just for one moment the task at hand.

(In September this is acceptable.)

Yes, it must have been September,
And it certainly must have been love—
Not the impatient love of youth
But a quiet love, comfortable with silence—
These served as the creative muse.

I see a man standing at the water's edge
Devising in his mind a water craft
Impossible to steer,
Moving at inefficient speeds,
Easily blown off course by the wind,
Maximizing his time on the water.

Yes, it must have been September,
And it certainly must have been love.

Sunday Roads

I like driving Sunday afternoons
When the road is quiet and still,
At peace after the busy weekend traffic.

A Sunday road cannot be ignored,
Weary from the task of daily
Bearing the weight of man from place to place.
At times I almost feel the road must weep
For joy as Sunday comes.

And the other drivers seem to agree
As we amble along below the speed limit,
Stopping and waiting patiently—
As if, for a day, it's time to let the road
Rest from its labors.

Conversing Near a Beaver Dam

Before I tell you about the beaver dam—
before I mention the way she looked at me that night,
how her eyes matched the sky,
and well before I even bring up the fact that I was nervous
and shaking in concert with the wind-blown leaves—

you deserve to know right at the outset
that this is a poem about love.

And as such I don’t blame you
if you don’t want to finish reading it,
because I will discuss things you cannot understand.

How could you understand

the way her laugh, her voice, and her song
blend together like a well-written symphony,
which each time moves me to standing ovations;

or how her touch, like September afternoon sunlight
never burns or chills, but always offers
just the right amount of warmth
without being a distraction?

You couldn’t understand them
because I don’t understand them.

But before I get back to the beaver dam—
before I get back to us standing there
watching our reflection ripple on the pond,
and how I couldn’t help but imagine us on a flag
flying triumphantly in the wind—

you should know that
the reason I’m happy to tell you about things
I know you won’t understand
is because I’m not writing this poem for you.
I’m writing it for her.

And she’ll understand because she loves me.
I already told you

this is a poem about love.

Dressing Emily Dickinson

I was not alarmed to find she needed help with the process.

I began with her nineteenth-century undergarments,
picking them up from the floor
where they had been carelessly tossed aside.

The oceans of clasps, pins, catches, and straps
seemed so unthinkable to me,
that regardless of how many times I analyzed them,
and no matter my angle of perspective,
I was completely powerless to ascertain their meaning.
I felt as if I would drown in this sea of confusion,
sinking slowly through the unknown world of
meaningless complexity.

And Ms. Dickinson refused to be of any help.

In the end I was forced to fit her in them
whatever way seemed proper,
and then to tie them in the back
with the skill and prowess
of a young man who never earned his Eagle Scout.
When I had finished, I watched her hair flow over her backside—
a discombobulated French braid
floating on my sea of double half-hitches.

Next came the corset, being so small
that I wondered how to fit her in it.
I fidgeted uncomfortably for a while,
debating if perhaps I should just toss it aside
Yet when I finally made the attempt
she slipped inside like a camel through a needle’s eye
(which would have surprised me less).
She produced an audible gasp as I tightened the straps
and secured the fastener at the top.

Finally she was contained,
which somehow made me breathe more easily.

Her dress, bonnet, and tippet
were all similar ordeals to be endured.
I softly cursed the fashion,
nothing more than hand-spun cotton,
and I wished it would unravel.

When finally I was finished
I collapsed in a nearby upholstered chair,
emotionally and physically drained
from so much pulling, forcing, and straining.
She seemed none the worse for it,
standing like a statue near the window as if,
though dressed,
she still had no good reason to remove herself
from a position of nothingness—

While I, too tired to move,
involuntarily fell asleep in my seat
and dreamt of putting double knots in her corset,
should I ever be forced to dress her again.

If I Could Choose the Way that Men Recall

If I could choose the way that men recall
My name, when I have finally closed my eyes,
I think,
I think I’d like them ‘round a fire.
And not a fire so hot it drives away,
Or one so bright it covers up the stars,

But a fire that’s soft and warm; that draws men in
To sit there knee to knee around its flames.

I mean the kind of fire with silent glow
Alights men’s half-faces in such a way
That all feel safely hidden in the dark
While yet they yearn to speak what’s in their hearts.

It needs, as well, to be that time of night
When revelry has passed, about an hour—
When voices grow more soft, more delicate—
Perhaps with someone humming gentle tunes
While others closely listen.

And though they may not know the tune or its words
They know the mood that fits that time of night
Enough that they can say, “That tune was right.”

And then, around that fire at just that time
I hope that someone softly speaks my name,
Allows it to hang quietly, suspended
For just one moment before it fades away.

No other words are needed—just the fire.
It would be
Enough to be remembered ‘round the flames.

You Can Learn a lot from Your Bellybutton

It's hard to clean your bellybutton
Of everything inside.
I know this by experience:
This afternoon I tried.

O that I'd not attempted!
O curse my foolish pride!
For though I live one hundred years
And cleanse myself with many tears--
No matter how my face appears!--
I'll still know deep inside
That somewhere deep within my soul
Dirt always will reside.