Silver

Of all the poems I’ve ever wanted to write,
there’s one that has the honey-locust blooming,
its thorns still green and malleable in late spring,
the lilt of its flowers strewn across the yard.
This is not that poem, though here in the old house

whose heartpine floors wane at each corner
I can imagine it. That poem will only arrive
when I’m done with houseraising, done with thrift,
done with the blue bowl full of buttermilk
soaking venison I dressed with Peter in the fall.

That poem will arrive only when the two bands
of woven silver are finished, and all the music’s
been played, Peter and Dale have gone home
to their wives and sons, and the floor’s swept:
I want to wear one of those rings, to give myself

to the poem when it arrives, to have
the light slanting across the floorboards,
maybe rain on the way, the dooryard in order,
the wind finally rising, the choosing not to.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in The Blue Moon Review