No Place Else
Sky cloudy, soft gray. It’s humid, but not stifling. We walk along a gravel path. Perhaps in these parts it is called a road. Sharp, sweet scent of evergreen, rustling of sassafras. We pause at a pond, sit on an old cedar bench. Who put it there? We thank them. Ducks & more ducks: mallards, buffleheads. A black & yellow butterfly floats past. Back on the road, again looking at the sky, clouds turning gold & fuchsia. To think—this place wasn’t marked as special on our map. Is that an owl talking deep in the pines? We stand still as possible, the only way to know.
A Train Runs Through
A freight train runs intermittently past the lake
beyond a stand of stunted sycamores.
Sometimes it's empty & mostly clacks or rattles.
Other times it’s loaded & bends a deep moan
from the sloping rails. My grandma ages ago
told me this track used to double as a passenger
line & she’d ride out to farmlands & orchards
some thirty miles west. What she did there,
I don’t know. She only spoke of the brightly
colored garments she knitted as sooty mills
& factories faded behind. I have a pair of gloves
she gave me: wool, badly pilled, yet still
her signature cardinal-red. They were
my father’s as a teen, loose on me at first
though now a comfortable fit. If it’s cold,
as it is right now, I like to wear them while
I cast my line & reel back in. True, fish don’t
often strike in late November, but my hands
are cozy & I keep on casting. Today I’ll stay
until the train rolls by or sunset comes.
There’s a rumbling not too far away. I feel it.
Finally, the Rain
A crimson maple leaf
slides down the rain-streaked
window. Bicycles splash through
puddles, their youthful riders
laughing. There’s the musky
scent of mulch. Earthworms
have finally emerged again.
The soaking we’ve prayed
so long for came this morning,
thankfully with force. It has all
but passed & what shall we do
now? We’re in the sunroom
waiting on clouds to disperse.
I’m braiding your silvery hair.
No need to answer.
_______________
Richard Jordan’s poems appear or are forthcoming in Terrain, Cider Press Review, Connecticut River Review, Rattle and elsewhere. His debut chapbook, The Squannacook at Dawn, won first place in the 2023 Poetry Box Chapbook Contest. He serves as an Associate Editor for Thimble Literary Magazine
These are really gorgeous, Rich.