Dear Hölderlin
(for Maureen Owen)
Years ago in a migration
we each carried our own
rug and pillow,
telescope and strings.
Our tent was portable and able
to be dismantled.
It could be rolled
and stuffed very fast.
Flowers and grass
still grew freely and sea-lilac
had already cracked
the tarmac. So there was sustenance.
At the estuary nearby
two continents had split apart
and a curlew
flew alone and crying.
Carefully a book
would be buried
with iodine and wine
and food that doesn't rot.
The cross is a good marker
for an avenue and white clover,
trampled where little
sweet pea is growing higher.
Down the hill comes a poet
with ginger hair, he puts
violets inside his hat,
herbs and water and says:
There was once music here,
a round table
and gang prayer
and an exploding glacier.
Women kept each tent clean
until one cried,
I'm going to take care
of myself.
We heard her packing
the woods into her tote
like a nymph
managing a shipwreck.
After all, for us all
empathy was our only hope.
————————
Fanny Howe
Second Childhood
Graywolf Press 2014
