Monday, May 16, 2016


Work Gloves

On the garden gate

Left here with me —

Shape of her hands

I Have Been Told

Down on the river

There is a small place

Where there is no sound

Nothing, and I know it well

And I have been told

And since found

That when climbing back

Loaded with water

At the top of the rise

If you half turn your head

The river will tilt into your ear

Horse & Farmhand

Here is the slowness

Of afternoon and sun

A farmhand bending to lift

A sleeve of ice

From a trough

In the pasture

The horse that stands still

The snow we’ve been waiting for

Winter Day

I swore if you laid

Your cheek, wind

Blown red as any

Soft maple leaf

Onto the pond,

And looked down through

The half-foot of 

Ice, the rest was

Water flowing clear

Way back up to you —

The scales of depth

Catching your breath


Bob Arnold