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Poems
i
June morning. Sunlight flashes through the pines. Blue jays razz and bicker, perch on a fence post Back of my grandfather’s yard. His stripped engines Clutter the lawn. And everywhere the taste Of scuppernongs, just moments off the vines, So sour that you would swear the mind has traced A pathway through the thicket, swear the past Comes clear again, picked piecemeal from the dust— ii Or else it’s late—September—and the shade Thicker than I recall: those cardinals, Finches or mockingbirds still haven’t made A sound all afternoon, though ripe fruit swells On vine, or branch . . . or bramble. Thus the frayed Edge of recollection slowly ravels Away to ... This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchaseSubscribe to TNC (Print and Online editions) Subscribe to TNC (Online only) This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 19 November 2000, on page 37 Copyright © 2012 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com http://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/enginework-creech-2309
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