October
I posted this on greatpoets a few days ago. Now it's here, because I miss the Central Coast so much.
Early Fall Along The Shores of Los Osos
Patrice Vecchione
At first light, breeze makes the fennel bush shake-
dry sticks except for its still-yellow flowers.
Strolling away, the scent of licorice follows.
There isn’t just one name
for anything-not for the hidden bird
whose call repeats,
not for the pair of long-beaked sandpipers
scurrying across the sand, nor the ducks
swimming in calm obedience to water.
Sunshine doubles every boat upon the water.
And upstairs, the sleeping one reaches
his hand across the width of our bed.
Though my inclination toward these tiny
black shapes and their flush, filled-out sounds
don’t equal his reach,
still I take early morning outside, alone,
for the fading foghorn, sun at my neck,
the lash of far-off waves.
If I don’t tell about the boats,
the dreaming man, fennel in the air, that within
which quivers, where does my life go?
Early Fall Along The Shores of Los Osos
Patrice Vecchione
At first light, breeze makes the fennel bush shake-
dry sticks except for its still-yellow flowers.
Strolling away, the scent of licorice follows.
There isn’t just one name
for anything-not for the hidden bird
whose call repeats,
not for the pair of long-beaked sandpipers
scurrying across the sand, nor the ducks
swimming in calm obedience to water.
Sunshine doubles every boat upon the water.
And upstairs, the sleeping one reaches
his hand across the width of our bed.
Though my inclination toward these tiny
black shapes and their flush, filled-out sounds
don’t equal his reach,
still I take early morning outside, alone,
for the fading foghorn, sun at my neck,
the lash of far-off waves.
If I don’t tell about the boats,
the dreaming man, fennel in the air, that within
which quivers, where does my life go?