Higgins Beach, August, 2006

 

How thin it seems, the night sky,

always presenting itself.

 

Big Dipper, Little, None,

The Sieve, all that extravagant display

of empty night sky.

 

This morning taking down beach towels

from the line out back, I look

out over the neighbor’s yard

through the gap where last night the North Star

danced between the trees.

 

 

 

 

Leverage

 

How to shift the weight of waves

from the land back to surges;

what lever to lift the fog that lies

heavy still on the horizon;

Up the steps to the cottage porch,

someone tries to calculate.

 

Dirty white, gulls flying past,

Don’t be so fixed upon refuse!

Search the cliffs for Scholar Stones,

the sand for gleaming shells.

But the winds carry my scavengers

past fallacy to the point.

 

How open the days littered

with brilliant mornings beckoning,

and still the waters splaying

their sleek fingers at the shore;

how live it, the span of days, months,

or even years, to the end.

 

Too hot, this! The day, the air,

the sun that flattens wills beneath it.

A lobster boat works its way

buoy to buoy, pauses off the rocks.

Starboard side, metal crane and pulley

raise the streaming trap, the green prey.

 

 

 

My Father Writing Sijo

 

My father now at ninety-two

has started writing sijo.

The first seemed operatic:

two voices, alto and bass.

My mother’s earnest questioning,

his aria, “Never More.”

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2008 by David McCann