Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems

one two three four five
one two three four five six sev
en two three four ______

The cows have arranged themselves
in a corner of the field
counterpoint to the uniform
heavy gray of sky above.

Bare trees
or nearly bare
flayed by the winds
bark darkened by nights of rain
stand solemn witness
over their legion dead—
they, prostrate supplicants,
die willingly, knowing their sacrifice
was well made: their tree yet stands,
drifts toward sated slumber.
So they release themselves
to merge with earth
as what they were
becomes what is and
yields itself again
to the tree.

The birds, observing,
flit among branches,
anxious; their knowing dimmed
by their speed of life.
But the cows know:
all is waiting.

Her absence is so ominous
I wonder what it bodes for us;
and is it just coincidence
(I never doubt my Spidey-sense)
that soon the Mayan calendar
expires, but we don't hear from her?
Perhaps she's doomsday prepping
and that circumvents her stepping
to her trusty ol' computers
while she guards the home from looters.
But that seems a little drastic
(truth is often less fantastic);
I'm sure she wants to stop and write
but making time's an endless fight.

Clear days, warmed by sun,
tempestuous nights of storm:
Jekyll/Hyde weather.

I’m walking the gravel road
in the space between storms.
The air is clean, the way it is
after days of rain and wind.

Shredded clouds race overhead
to unknown rendezvous,
stormwater drains from the cow field
under a rough stone wall of dark basalt.

For a few hours of patchy sunlight
I uncovered the raised garden beds,
protected from the storm and night cold.
The kale are so young and tender,

I can’t deny them this respite, this nourishment.
The next storm will sweep in tonight
a tyrant, throwing its weight around.
We all must breathe and stretch while we can.