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BLUE HILLS, EARLY DECEMBER Brian Simoneau |
Rusted chainlink rising from tall grass, mud divulging the rush of highway from below—this is no mountain, required, requires uncontracted time to cast about, windswept granite, cores exposed,
contact, confluence of stone and flesh, matching contours ability to shape itself, shift its limits and puzzle-piece against solid rock, bedrock found, foundation felt is hardly the world we expect, every
So low it gives small warmth the sun harbor. Flights sliding out of Logan silent from here, and so dissolves the way this season slips away— of oak rooted to this landscape in ways we can't
to settle, set the feet deep in the duff, sink as seasons spirit themselves around me, assume some threshold trying to slip itself past, catch me
There's snow on the way, its offer of erasure, more inviting than resurrection blossoms of spring, rebirth reiteration, reification of past actions, accentuation of what came
What we get is almost always the willow, always furrowed space, each spring a palimpsest the bare branch,
__ The Blue Hills Reservation is a state park just south of Boston. When I moved here after several years on the West Coast, I struggled to settle in. I tried to spend as much time as possible walking in the woods. I also spent a lot of time rereading Thoreau. He makes an appearance in my poem. So do Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams. I've been here almost five years now. I still struggle. |