Underpaid Genius

The strands of hair in the brush and
the indentation in the pillow, your dog
snoring on the bed, the unkind note
on the dresser top, the red silk rose
the body guys left for us, the curtains
full of dust, swinging, as a bird lands
on the stone wall, the summer heat
bears down, and eight geese take off
from the pond, and as his backhoe idles,
the guy smokes, while in the distance
there's the endless hum of cars,
and a small plane sets loose a glider
in the afternoon, into the quiet
of all that space opening out.

All that space opening out
in the afternoon quiet, as overhead,
a small plane sets loose a glider,
and in the distance the endless hum
of cars, and nearer, the guy lighting
his smoke, his backhoe idle, as geese
rise from the pond, the summer heat
bearing down, a bird on the wall,
the curtains full of sunlight and dust,
in the room where the body guys left
a silk rose, there's the unkind note
on the dresser top, your dog snoring
on the bed, the indentation in the pillow,
and four strands of hair in the brush.

(Source: bu.edu)

When I was a weaver, I chose
a red silk thread to get me to the heart
of my creation and then back out,
across the loom, to whatever life was waiting.

And when you found the little red pathway,
buried between warp and woof, you were sure
you’d found a flaw. Please remember what happens

when there’s no exit. Years of breathing
wool dust, reeking of lanolin, staring into coils
of green yarn and blue—you go dumb.

You’ve heard the story a thousand times—
that trapped fox, whining and snuffling
then biting her paw
through the bone, and running off into the night.

The mind wants this: a door in the wall,
an open field, a narrow path
through the woods, an open field

(Source: poems.com, via airwalker)