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Tag: Merrill Gilfillan

Something for John Clare

Spiderwort, the begs-

to-be-said: Fat of the summer,

off at the crack of the fat

of the bat. A pair of grosbeaks

feed in a hackberry tree

so lost in it all they have

a sort of kundalini air.

Orioles prefer the goatsbeard.

We watch the slow horses trail

the way Baudelaire, a Frenchman

who followed you through,

watched the clouds: a file

of chestnuts and flashy bays plod

across a meadow, drift?

it seems like hours, head to tail

past a clutter of fallen cottonwoods,

disappear up a cool box elder draw.

Then we watch the clouds.

from UndanceableFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © 2005 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Old Friend on the Quiet Side Far Away

This morning orioles seemed to spark

from every tree: “spots before the eyes”

after restless sleep.

And then the mountains west

blinding with late June snow.

How is that sumo live oak outside

your corner window?

How are those marvelous blond hills

rolling down to the sea?

from Red MavisFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © 2014 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Sage in September

Sprigs for sunrise,

sprigs for Taos, and soldiers

on the steep blue sea.

The slopes of Taos,

true south, building, firing

to the aspen smoulder-golden—

sage for the cello in its breeze.

Sprigs for small things

rousted, on the run, Septembered.

Flocks of longspurs slipping down

the continent by night. Sage for them,

moving through the mesh

of the dangerous starlight.

from Bark of the DogFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © Merrill Gilfillan

Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Blue Ridge: Blossoms on the Feral Trees

Apple blossoms on the feral trees

have a light all their own, cool ivory

of petals already fallen. One mile,

maybe two, north from Beetree,

a hint of wind nudged through the gap,

the slightest sleight-of-hand. Two miles,

maybe three—stung ivory, coinage

of stars—new leaves on the beech sprouts

silken enough to swaddle a child.

from Red MavisFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © 2014 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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