Still, the house; then light-crack, the entr’acte of dawn: each pane laliqued, fern-etched on the emery-wheel of December. Brief,that film, already burning, the evaporate fact I’d stay lost in longer, the far-fetched dream the sun now filches like a thief. And so the windows fill with day’s contusions, a slurry of routine, hours stretching toward… Continue reading Richard Foerster
Aubade Who lives where summerends knows the hard cold of autumn is blissfully close, although it feels each season newly un- known. You are constantlynewly unknown to me,my night-glowing open-hearted sting-of-salt weather. Rains and winds, sleights-of- hand. Who if not you could weigh me enoughdown. You’d paint my eyesblacker and warmer than they are and soon… Continue reading Joanna Klink
Beyond the limits of myself, there is you, a wind-waveof fading light on a square of cottage pane,a final mix of golden prairie in my mind.I am the impoverished heir of blackened gum quarters,your crosswalk & roofline of foul pigeons. Dear Sibilant Stir & Kick:see that tall grass on the ceiling, that burst of dusted… Continue reading Major Jackson
Ode, Aubade And the morning, too,falters,struggles toassert itself, burn throughthe errantfog, the pines,scorch the whole groveof treesand crookedstreetlamps. Your body’s turning,turningbeside mein my bed’s— sprawl?Badlands?You sighon my neck. Startled,the crickand sob buried inside itlike a pulsar behind dust,like a larvain a bean,want out. Greg Wrenn, Poem-A-Day, March 25, 2013
Aubade There was one summerthat returned many times overthere was one flower unfurlingtaking many forms Crimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late roses There was one loveThere was one love, there were many nights Smell of the mock orange treeCorridors of jasmine and liliesStill the wind blew There were many winters but I… Continue reading Louise Glück
Aubade “My love, I fear the silence of your hands.” —Mahmoud Darwish Overnight, my heart, the forest has grown coldand every leaf shivers with the sure knowledge of its fall,shivers yellow and maple-red and mauve, Summer rememberedin vermillion dying. When I walk the river now it bears merely the lightest press of feet, my body… Continue reading Alvin Pang
As I would free the white almond from the green husk So would I strip your trappings off, Beloved. And fingering the smooth and polished kernel I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting. — Amy Lowell, “Aubade,” Amy Lowell, Complete Poetical Works (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1955)
Late Aubade after Hardy So what do you think, Life, it seemed pretty good to me, though quiet, I guess, and unspectacular. It’s been so long, I don’t know any more how these things go. I don’t know what it means that we’ve had this time together. I get that the coffee, the sunlight on… Continue reading James Richardson
Aubade Waking, I find a still form, a bird whose aim was to sweep past our sleeping faces, to be that glorious gust, or trumpet spurt of dawn, and not this lidless eye upturned below our window. I kneel and slide my fingers under fading warmth. A limp, soft sparrow. Scaly talons clutched as I… Continue reading Derek Sheffield
As if one is a shadow stitched to the other, they sit, knees bent & parted, cradled in the basin of the clawfoot, her belly to his spine. She leans into him, her cheek resting against the blade in his back, & watches the window above the pull-chain warm from bath water to blue. He… Continue reading Meg Day
The Vale of Soul-Making 