All Hallows

This is the most recent poem that rearranged my brain.


All Hollows
-by Louise Gluck

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.


One of the poetry Stegner Fellows gave this to me while they were passing out poems to students in White Plaza during the week before Halloween. It was Poem in a Pocket Day. The Stegners asked some students if they wanted poems, and the students would shy away with averted eyes or ignore them as if they hadn't spoken. Who wouldn't want a poem in the pocket? I wish I had my books of poetry that are currently in messy, disordered boxes at home: I would love to have a poem a day, again. In Michigan and New York, I would often wake and read poems before starting my day. As Blue would say, I need my "tools."

Now I'm off to watch Nature's Most Amazing Events. This disc from Netflix includes such exhilarating events as "The Great Melt," "The Great Salmon Run," and "The Great Migration." Yes, I rented this on purpose. Yes, this is my idea of excitement. Yes, I know. Don't say it.