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Spring comes without a grudge

against winter. Each casual daffodil

just shows up. Outside our stories.

Once I held my son in my hands.

About the weight of our old cat.

His gaze and mine: peers

at a birth in a hospital.

From the unseen, something

just shows up. An old weight

of feeling unseen? or something

that is light. That is, light.

Fall promises nothing. Coolness.

A hollowing of space into distances.

The blazing amid the conifers fades.

To stand there, clearly visible

as the stories go out of season.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Robert Duffy.


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