Should the Fox Come Again to My Cabin
I can never be close enough to the earth—
its vulnerable torso, its almost silent heart,
and then many souls riding on information technology.
Patricia Fargnoli writes close to our home, this earth, and to all of united states of america who dear, grieve, and dice within its "silence of the cherry blossoms," its "skittering of wind-blown snowfall." In her gorgeous, contemplative articulations of sorrow, of longing and loneliness, she leaves us whispering to ourselves, yes, yes, that'southward the way information technology is.
A retired social worker, Patricia Fargnoli published her first volume of poetry, Necessary Light (Utah Land Academy Press, 1999), when she was 62. Since then she's published iv boosted collections, virtually recently, Hallowed: New and Selected Poems (Tupelo Press, 2017). Her other books are Wintertime (Hobblebush Books, 2013), runner-upward for the Jacar Volume Press Prize;Then, Something (Tupelo Press, 2005), winner of the ForeWord Magazine Silver Poetry Book of the Year Award, co-winner of the New England Poetry Club'south Shelia Motton Book Laurels, and honorable mention for the Erik Hoffer Awards; andDuties of the Spirit (Tupelo Press, 2001), winner of the 2005 Jane Kenyon Literary Award for an Outstanding Book of Poetry. She served as the New Hampshire poet laureate from 2006 to 2009 and was by acquaintance editor of theWorcester Review. She has taught at the Frost Place Poetry Festival, the New Hampshire Institute of Art, the Lifelong Learning program of Keene Country Higher, and privately. Awards include an honorary BFA from The New Hampshire Institute of Arts and a MacDowell fellowship. Her piece of work has appeared in anthologies such as theEcopoetry Anthology and Garrison Keillor'southwardExpert Poems, and in such journals equally Verse, Ploughshares, Due north American Review, Harvard Review, Alaska Quarterly, andPrairie Schooner. She resides in Walpole, New Hampshire.
Selected Poems past Patricia Fargnoli
To an Old Woman Standing in October Light Meliorate to only admit it, time has gotten away from you, and yet across the white houses and mowed lawns, has become a golden leaf-embossed globe, the brook runs molten, Do yous know that your own figure, as Midas-touched as a Klimt painting, almost duplicate from the whole of information technology — Or is information technology that your body, out of fourth dimension, is merged into eternity? with faith so shaky it vibrates similar a plucked wire. your disappearing holds off for a while. But see how, even in this present, the style, above you, the crows are winging domicile over again, calling to each other,
here yous are again, out in your yard at sunset, a golden light draping itself
the house-alpine maple, greenish and rust in ordinary lite,
the clouds themselves glow aureate as the heaven you used to imagine.
has go part of that landscape falling effectually you,
as if eternity itself were being absorbed into your mortal body?
You accept been looking for a reason for your continued being,
Such moments of celebrity must exist enough. Equally you search them out once more, again,
as you lot stand at that place, the by flies into the futurity,
vanishing above the trees into the night-gathering sky.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
And the morning opens like a blueish celebrity blossom on a vine. I want to be like the depths The song I demand to make it through today and keeps me from reaching out in sorrow. Therefore I sing along and choose * All dark, dreams came to residue in quiet, The night nurtured them with its stars * I feel the flooring trembling Inheritance and genealogy and the pelting disappears into puddles. but I resist. * fragments that cannot be put together. I cannot take it in — bigger than the mind What can it mean? I mean everything. * I can never be close plenty to the globe — * * * clatter of hours, the hammers of morn, * Who hears voices when no one is there?
Fragmenting
The business conversations of the birds,
chitterings among the depression bushes.
beyond the petals where everything is burning.
falls on my head softly like the smallest pebbles
among the many notes.
unfolding into a kind of truth.
They shaped who I am.
every bit I turned to the wall.
and the circle beneath my feet.
on the curb talking
I want to drift off to sleep
And then it floats me into its arms.
golden fish shimmering in a net,
tin continue at once.
The lake at twilight, the lightning,
all the mechanism around me?
Words keep walking across the page
and a covey of doves scatters up.
its vulnerable body, its almost silent heart,
so many souls riding on information technology.
then comes the sweet relief.
Who is listening so?
roar of garbage compactors in the circuitous,
the women rising, the women sewing.
Do y'all even hear me?
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Without my hearing aids, the 24-hour interval seems so still, Yesterday a friend showed me her new verse form: Only final week, Roger'south ashes sabbatum on a bench Past which I meant the largeness was his spirit. was standing outside myself At present the clock that leans on the shelf above the tabular array I just want to slumber and slumber more than, then more. On YouTube I listen to scientists, Can I hope anyhow? I've read and read once again Seven hares running to what end, for what reason?
A Week After His Funeral
light washes the windows all yellow
like the eye of my true cat who snoozes on his wicker chair.
vii hares running effectually a jar or an urn
the way they might have done in ancient Hellenic republic.
in the funeral domicile, in a stainless steel urn
and I idea he's too big to exist contained there.
The wake a great sadness.
Someone who seemed to be me
watching me comfort his daughter,
his 2 sons, moving around in a mist.
is telling its silent numbers to the room. O two, three, iv.
Drapes hang heavy with grit, I must wash them.
What does this world mean anyway
so modest in this endless universe?
the many who say there is no beingness later on.
Stephen Hawking says we are only computers.
the few letters I kept from the nifty many Roger sent me.
And stared at the photographs, trying to bring him back.
Vii yellow pairs of eyes at the window.
7 stabbing shafts of midday low-cal.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Glosa, Four Months later on Your Death
after Pablo Neruda
Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here: Early Nov, leaves on the ground, Merely my own thoughts accompany me, stretching out across the fallen garden, The year has turned greyness and gold and is hung with webs.
Only the dark-green and blackness winter, the solar day
Waking from sleep like a ghost
a white phantom in cold garments.
the migrating birds gone from the copse,
shrill jay in the maple, his unanswered call.
I am alone here among the littered fans
of the gingko, the hostas' dried stalks,
alone as if waiting for you to appear
from wherever yous have gone,
merely there is only the silence, a gray atmosphere.
Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here.
only the unresponsive sky, its silence of clouds
e'er drifting northward with the wind, and one
by one, disappearing every bit though year after yr
was passing in procession, each loss making manner
for the next and the adjacent.
The hours are sullen and chill.
I gather the material of my glaze to my body,
knowing I am not just alone, but lone will stay.
Only the light-green and black winter, the day
the same garden that comes at night subsequently dark in dream,
as though the remnants of ruin were haunting me,
the Eden after the fall from grace,
all brier and weed, so I understand
that what could be kept has been macerated,
that everything perfect already had been lost.
I concur onto life similar a biting promise that has some adept in it
and walk here like a first woman equally if waking, an innermost
waking from sleep similar a ghost.
Somehow I accept become an sometime woman without meaning to.
These are the rickety days of piddling substance, the mind
gone blurry, the ears deafened, the damaged eye,
even the taste of lemons dull on my tongue.
Nothing anymore, not fifty-fifty my emotions, is intense.
I accept given up waiting for you to come to me
in whatever form you might take. I have given up watching.
All drabbed down, I am full of your absence:
a white phantom in cold garments.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Retentivity
after a photograph by Yako Ma
I remember I think it must be morning there, the air moist on my arms,
the absolute silence of the cherry blossoms
over the small emerald river in the countryside,
the quiet countryside somewhere in Japan.
And the way the emerald water too held
the milky white reflection of the heaven
and the dark shadows the cherry-red trees cast in that location
where a single rowboat was pulled upward parallel to the bank
as I sat a long mode off in another state,
some other century, looking down on the scene.
the minor path that runs along the river, empty
but waiting for someone, a monk possibly,
to make it in his orange robe —
a monk deep in a meditation walk,
and he doesn't know I am watching him
from my reverse and far border of the world.
Yet hither I am with all my senses open up,
taking in his walk, the river, the rowboat,
and the cherry trees in blossom
such as I've never seen in my own life.
And wishing to go in that oarless rowboat
somewhere deeper into this quiet
that I can almost remember.
How gently flowing my mind feels now —
like the small river
or an unfolding cherry blossom.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Reincarnate I desire to come back as that ordinary
garden snail, carting my brown-striped spiral beat out
onto the mushroom which has sprouted
subsequently overnight rain and so I tin can stretch
my tentacles toward the slightly drooping
and pimpled raspberry, sweet and pulsing —
a pollex that bends on its stalk from the crown
of modest leaves, weighed downwards by the about
translucent shining drib of dew I have
been reaching and reaching toward my whole life.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
I don't think I think the way someone listens or equally though I were inhabiting the seasons When I think, sometimes it is and the ground rings with dampness, I remember with my skin open like the frog hard on the paper where they are malleable, but moving freely — his eyes quick I call up in tortoise-time,
How This Poet Thinks
similar lawyers, quick in the listen,
rapid equally a rat-a-tat-tat,
or academics, who pile logic upwards
like woods to get them through the wintertime.
in a still place for the sound of quiet —
or the way my trunk sways
at the transition zone, back and along
between field and woods — a witching stick —
betwixt winter and spring,
betwixt summer and fall —
finding those in-between places
that need me to name them.
like objects rushing through a tunnel,
and sometimes
it is similar water in a well with dirt sides,
where the wetness is completely absorbed
becomes a changed thing.
Other times
it is the style sea fog rises off
the swelling dark-green of the sea
and covers everything only illuminates itself.
who takes in the rain by osmosis.
I delve into the groundhog holes
where no words follow.
Tiresome, so slow I think, and cannot hold
the thoughts except when they come down
tin exist shifted, worked at like clay.
I call back similar this: with my brain stem,
and with the site of emotions
the fashion I imagine the trick thinks,
trapped in his present need
toward the solar day's desire —
and the way, beneath the surface
of the water, the swimmer'due south legs hang down
above the tendrils of the jelly fish
which moving ridge in the filtered light.
dream-time, limbic time,
like a waterfall, a moth's wing,
like snow — that soundless, that white.
from Necessary Light, Utah State University Press, 1999, and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017
It was already too late
Lightning Spreads Out Across the H2o
when the swimmers began
to wade through the heavy
water toward shore,
the cloud's black greatcoat
flinging across the lord's day,
forked bolts blitzing
the blind ground,
splits and cracks
going their own easiest manner,
and with them, the woman
in the majestic tank adapt,
the male child with the water-wings,
one torso then another.
And this is nothing about God
only how Stone Swimming turned
at the height of the mean solar day
to flashpoint and fire
stalking across the water,
climbing the beach
among the screams
and the scent of burned skin
until twelve of them
curled lifeless on sand
or floated on the tipped
white caps of the surface,
and 20-2 more
walked into the rest
of their lives
knowing what waits
in the clouds to claim them
is random —
that aught can stop it,
that afterwards the pond
smooths to a stillness
that gives dorsum,
as though nada could move it,
the vacant imponderable sky.
from Necessary Low-cal, Utah State University Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
It may be part water, part animal —
Watching Lite in the Field
the light — the long flowing whole
of it, river-like, most feline,
shedding night, moving silent
and inscrutable into the early morning,
globe-trotting into the low fields,
gathering fullness, attaching itself
to thistle and sweetgrass,
the towering border copse,
inheriting their green wealth —
blooming as if this
were the only rightful occupation,
ascension beyond itself, stretching out
to inhabit the whole landscape.
I think of illuminations, erasures,
how light informs united states, is enough
to guide united states of america. How too much
can cause blindness. I think of retentiveness —
what is lost to usa, what we want.
By noon, cypher is exact,
everything diffused in the glare.
What cannot be seen intensifies:
rivulet of sweat across the cheekbone,
earthworm odor of soil and growing.
The field sways with confusion
of bird call, mewlings,
soft indecipherable mumblings.
Merely in the late afternoon, each stalk
and blade stands out so abrupt and articulate
I begin to know my identify among them.
By sunset as it leaves —
gold-dusting the meadow-rue and hoary alyssum,
hauling its bronze cloak beyond the fences,
vaulting the triple-circumference
of hills — I am no longer solitary.
from Necessary Calorie-free, Utah Land University Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Over my head, the roofmen are banging shingles into identify In the end, I volition have something to show for their hard labor — In another country, a friend tries to keep on living and, nigh his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms We become on. I don't know how sometimes. for some sign that life is more than than disaster — beyond the sacrifices of the body. Necessary light. of their labor, below concentric circles: a roof of sky, And don't those journeymen nailing each downward, firmly, securely.
Roofmen
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past fall, and bright equally copper foil.
unflappable shingles, dry out ceilings, one more measure of things
held safely in a world where safety is impossible.
though his arteries are clogged,
though the operation left a ten-inch scar
like a plain-featured bloom. His knees and feet
burn with constant pain.
For a living, I listen eight hours a twenty-four hour period to the voices
of the anxious and the lamentable. I sentry their beautiful faces
it is always there, the spirit behind the suffering,
the pocket-size light that gathers the soul and holds it
I bend toward information technology and blow gently.
And those hammerers in a higher place me curve into the dailiness
below the roof of the universe,
beneath what vaults over it.
concur a slice of the answer — the way they keep
laying one greyness speckled square later some other,
from Necessary Lite, Utah Country University Press, 1999 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
The bat veered erratically over us A thing then dark, it seemed continued to pass the good food, And, for all that society, I
First Night with Strangers
on that first nervous night,
while we ate, the twelve of us, at long tables
in the three-sided shed behind the society
protected from the summer pelting —
which was hammering straight downwardly —
and the lightning.
snipped from the burlap of shadow
high in the rafters in a higher place our candlelight.
Something non real — a figment,
a frantic silhouette.
And all the while nosotros
(who were not terribly disturbed)
connected to attain tentatively,
stranger to stranger. Oh
we were jovial — we told jokes,
nosotros laughed, we cracked open the closed
doors of ourselves to each other.
might have missed information technology entirely —
then far above united states it fluttered.
Seen/unseen. Seen/unseen.
from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
I saw the fob running past the side of the road
The Undeniable Pressure level of Existence
past the turned away brick faces of the condominiums
by the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull-haired
past Jim'southward Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the land road and he reached information technology and ran on
nether the underpass and across it by the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways,
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to exercise anything to help him, sure he was across
any aid, whatsoever desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his eyes stock-still on some point ahead of him, some fierce
invisible voice, some possible conservancy
in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.
from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Printing, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Take a simple affair like pistachios.
Pistachios
Retrieve of them in their shine brown cases
or cracked open up to white meat shiny equally a molar.
Or remember of them in ice cream, the green of mint
or leap or something more than delicious,
an unnamable ecstasy.
Get into the nuttiness of them,
the unadorned goodness, so permit the mind get
wherever it goes from at that place, to Romeo in the garden,
to the full brown nipples of Juliet. Let honey
come into it
as the raison d'etre for all Beingness,
and because
someone'southward always starting a war, let war come up into it,
though you lot wish information technology wouldn't.
Missiles over a ragged country;
worn-out people not turning back
to watch their homes on fire.
And from at that place go
to guns in the streets of our own country
and murders in the parks where no one is safety,
to feeble attempts — pistols
that tin can exist fired only by their owners —
as if that would be enough to stop the killing.
Oh, simply Romeo
in the garden, in blueish, and the moon over.
Oh but Juliet on the balcony.
Oh but the strong vine
that can hold a man climbing.
And pistachio ice cream,
a green you could die for.
And pistachios themselves,
the unproblematic nourishment,
the hard welcome apple,
the fallen fruit.
from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017
He lifts his violin and gives us the play a trick on and I am dorsum in Connemara where even where there are no copse to cease it rollicks his young intense face as his arm jigs and swings and the play a trick on is running with such joy along that cliff plum-blue ocean and a man's foot measuring time
The Composer Says This Is How We Should Live Our Lives
in Ireland running with wild abandon
along the cliff-edge above the wild Irish gaelic Sea
the pasture stones take names and the green
slopes are plentiful with stones and the ocean-air current
beyond the commonage and the sea is a wild rolling
and the composer's brown pilus is whipping around
the bow across the strings and his body is swaying
and his shoulders are leaping and the music is leaping
red trick bright green pasture cerulean sky
and the wind and the white-capped
in the sunday that is beyond brilliant and the fox is leaping
forward along the cliff-border.
from Duties of the Spirit, Tupelo Press, 2005 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
you will desire to take with you the mud-rich scent sliced on a bluish plate, their pinwheels of calorie-free from the farmer's night fields, and the sleepy kid y'all will want to take the i-eyed equus caballus that was never yours you plant crossing the hard road and could not save. blue/black/grays of the lake shining beneath coins of argent you volition try to have a prayer yous might have otherwise you lot have been calling back — but you will soon forget when y'all get, you lot will go out the Giants cap you wore blanket the books you meant to read, the books themselves the suitcases and tote bag in the overcrowded closet more y'all ever did. exit your tickets, and your Master Charge of what you've always been told. therefore accept cypher place your pulse on the tabular array, release breath. get out behind the scars
Wherever you are going
breaking through March frost, and lemons
you will want to take strawberries you lot have stolen
you lifted from under the willow where she'd been playing
and the obstinate cat that was, and the turtle with the cracked vanquish
you will desire, especially, to bring with you the shifting
and all that lives deeper there beneath the mysteries of water
left backside in case you demand it — and a memory of the love
to dinner behind for the others, you lot will leave dust
weighing down the shelves. it will be necessary to get out
and your two rooms for someone who wants them
with its sad balance — you won't be coming back regardless
take less than null and even less than that. remove your shoes
on your finger, your thigh, the long 1 over your heart
from Then, Something, Tupelo Press, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017
Prepositions Toward a Definition of God Beneath of form the sky, over the rain and the across and under the suitcases of the heart, Hither within at the table, at that place outside the circus, between the marshland sedges, around the edges Of energy and intelligence, Ahead of the storm and the river, backside the storm and the river. In a higher place the wheelbarrows and the chickens. against the framework of all the holy books. Apropos the invisible, and unnamable power, considering the spirit, Because if non God, so what in place of near the firebombed willow, abreast the nevertheless waters and the loud waters
in the sky itself,
over there amid the beach plum hedges,
beyond the beyond of,
from the dorsum burners of the universe.
within the halls of absence,
beyond the hanging gardens of the current of air,
of tall buildings going up
and short buildings coming down.
of energy — and if not intelligence and so what?
Prior to the starting time of dust, unto the terminate of burn.
Underneath the fast centre of the sparrow,
on top of the ho-hum eye of the ocean —
Despite the dogmas that rain down on the centuries.
in spite of the terror
because of something in the torso that wants to be lifted.
below the quilt that tosses the dead to the sky,
and among the walking among?
from So, Something, Tupelo Printing, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
They are what fuels the dark, what lies And this also: what whoops out You can encounter them from the corner of your eye,
Alternate Worlds
beyond the sheer defunction.
They are mysterious and hooded
like the woman in your dream, the hollow
earlier birth, what hides beneath the catafalque lid.
from the forest, the claws
of moles in their tunnels, the moon'due south
long fingers trailing across cheekbones,
the breath dispersed into ether.
hear them hum in the background of everything.
Or, on a summer night, a huge moth,
white-winged, full of grace,
darts beyond your path — and is gone.
from Then, Something, Tupelo Printing, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017
The Gifts of Linnaeus
afterwards native New England plants named by Carl Linnaeus
What is sacrament if non to take in the names — long by his brief moment in the world. Not for me the chantry rail or the intonations No, this is the body — this mountain laurel that failed to survive New England winters — of blowing across the field and this, too, And this is blood — the wild grapes clinging and this too, high-bush blueberry whose bright And here is New England aster, its flowers
the twinflower for instance he named for himself,
Linnaea Borealis, its fragile bells ringing
Or smooth sumac for making ink, for spilling
on the page, for keeping what might be lost.
of the priest. Not the vessel lifted upward,
nor the disc like a diatom on the natural language.
information technology is forbidden to pick, its blossoms similar lights
against the dark woods, or the ruddy mulberry
someone'south dream of silk that didn't come up to pass.
And this is the body, the common milkweed's clouds
what is left behind — the dried husk. And this
is the body — lobelia whose name fills my mouth.
to the wall behind which the traffic
of the interstate rushes with a river-sound —
gems gather a sheen of morning time dew, their stain
on my willing tongue.
bluer than wine. Eat and drink, hither, now,
on this giving earth, these sacraments.
from Then, Something, Tupelo Press, 2009 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
It is the gnawing within the silence In one case in a dream, the trees in a peach orchard Now, the wind from the hurricane The current of air finds its own identify Summertime is dying and I grow closer
Hunger
of the deep body which is like
the pool a waterfall replenishes
simply tin never fill.
The watery room of the body
and its voices who call and telephone call
wanting something more than, always more than.
chosen out saying: Here, this bright fruit,
concur its roundness in your palm,
and I held i, wanting
the others I could non hold,
as the low-cal fell through the trees,
one pour after another.
that veered out to sea
and the hard pelting accident through the space
where yesterday men felled the bandbox,
its height and dazzler, for no good reason.
Where it was, only emptiness remains,
and the stump level with the basis.
and waits there holding its breath
for a moment, calling to no 1,
surprising us by its stillness,
surprising fifty-fifty the rain which comes in
to my house through the untidy gardens
where information technology has been sending its life breath
over the dying mint and claret-scarlet daylilies.
to the shadow moving toward me
like the small spiders
that inhabit and hunt in the corners.
And the air current stirs, rattles the panels
singing its ain hunger, its own water vocal.
from Winter, Hobblebush Books, 2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Printing, 2017
In the long July evenings,
The Guest
the French woman,
who came to stay every summer
for two weeks at my aunt's inn,
would row my blood brother and me
out to the center of the mile-wide lake
so that the iii of us
would exist surrounded past the wild
extravagance of reds that had transformed
both lake and sky into fire.
Information technology was the summertime after our female parent died.
I remember the dipping audio of the oars
and the sweet music of our voices every bit she led us
in the songs she had taught u.s.a. to love.
Blueish Moon. Deep Purple.
We sang as she rowed, not ever wondering
where she came from or why she was lonely,
happy that she was willing to row usa
out into all that beauty.
from Wintertime, Hobblebush Books, 2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Afterwards all twenty-four hour period walking the Vermont craft off-white in the sun while my shadow preceded me along the grassy aisles where the breathy music of the accordion player floated I drove home and my shadow rode beside me drove lazily and then my shadow disappeared into the brown carpeting but at present through the east window evening approaches and I beckon it to enter me until I am one with it at last
Shadow at Evening
later the goat-milk soaps and rose-scented sachets
the brilliant pottery stalls and the wooden animals
and disappeared reappeared as I moved in and out
of the shadows of maples and gray ash trees
where the field was vibrant with color and motion
stalls of candles relishes and pickles cotton candy in plastic sleeves
watching the Light-green Mountains pass exterior the windows
home to my own modest cache of confinement and grace
disappeared into the bookshelves and the books
I never missed it simply just continued on with my serenity life
only now night is knocking confronting the long shadows
of the street lamp as my shadow rises mysterious and compliant
and I let the day to close and dream to come
let the dream to ascension from nowhere and come to me.
from Winter, Hobblebush Books, 2013 , and
Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Should the Play a trick on Come Once again to My Cabin in the Snow
Then, the winter will have fallen all in white
and the hill will be rise to the northward,the nighttime besides rising and leaving,
dawn light just coming in, the burn down out.
Down the colina running will come up that flame
among the dancing skeletons of the ash copse.
I will leave the door open for him.
from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, Tupelo Press, 2017
Source: http://authormark.com/artman2/publish/Innisfree_29PATRICIA_FARGNOLI.shtml
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