Snagging Some Poetry as Life Flies By

My sister sent me seventeen thin brown books of poetry, each written by a different resident of her small Idaho town.

Seventeen thin books, each one distinct.

Poetry, poetry. I page through them, looking for that elusive line that startles with its mystery.

Two books of the seventeen are in the “keep” pile—and in each book one poem:

I Can’t Remember

So much touch that we have blurred.

I can’t remember you

with clean edges –

crisp for lack of me.

Holding yourself completely in –

defined by boundaries.

Knowing you enough to guess, but not to ask,

an interpretation of your thoughts –

they lie under

spare words

as an aquifer under the August riverbed.

– Amy Christensen

Begin Here

Follow the wind

till it takes your breath.

Watch for youth and death,

they’re always in the way. Somewhere between the Seven Devils

and Pluto you’ll see it

plain as day just jump

before you

like a dog gone

laughing mad for living.

You’ll know you’re there

by the sound of trees,

the way the grass

waves welcome.

You’ll know you’re there

when sparrows sing,

“It’s light. It’s light.

It’s light.”

And when you’re near –

that’s close enough.

Give up. You’re here,

You’re home.

– Rick Ardinger