A Grace-Filled Poem for Today

Turtle
by Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll,
a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing-case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes.
Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch
which would convert her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.

Recipe Dreaming

ah, such poetry as lives in cooking—
leeks and cornmeal,
figs and fennel,
savory, thyme, rosemary and oats.
your hand covers mine as I wield the knife-blade,
the chopping board thumps with each downward stroke.
courgette, turnip, carrot and pumpkin,
potato, shallot, artichoke, beet.
crisp apples with onion, walnuts and ginger;
steam-borne aromas of mushroom and wine;
scallion, cilantro, cardamom, turmeric;
boursin, edam, gouda and bleu.
yeasty odors waft from the oven,
linens are starched, the candles a-glow.
tea-kettle bubbles, cups stand by waiting,
spoon clinks on crystal,
the table is laid.

Winter Morning Drive in the Country

Frost-furred lumber stacked by the roadside
waiting for hands and hammers and nails;
a slow-moving river bearded with white fog
winds by the south gate headed for home.

Winter falls softly in this part of heaven.
It creeps in on shoes that are silent as sleep.
The sky fills with grey clouds as birds huddle together
On a lamppost arm stretched out
by the side of the road.

Red leaves lie sleeping on the the floor of the forest,
crunching beneath footfalls as a man passes by.
The land settles down with a sigh for the winter,
like the last sleepy breath
of a day that is done.

An Autumn Prayer

For little grey squirrels,
paws clasped as in prayer across taut white bellies,
poised by the road, chewing contemplatively,
gazing toward winter,
good Lord,
oh!
are we thankful.

For David, in the rain this morning

The man in the rain that walked past the dumpster,
following the two dogs—one leashed and one not,
shuffled his feet as he trudged to the door
of the room that he rents
by the week
near the cloverleaf exit
where I commute every day.

He could have been anyone—
his blonde hair receding,
the height he once knew
is less than it was.
Weighed down by his years;
though not really so many,
each doubles or triples
with each drink he takes.

His shoulders are sodden
with rain and with anger.
His feet don’t remember
the days he would dance
through leaves with the careless
abandon of childhood,
or with a laughing blonde baby
atop of his shoes.

His pockets are empty
except for his fingers;
his dreams have all dried up,
his memories are gone.
Where have you gone to,
my blue-eyed brother?
And do you remember
the days we were young?