"...you may pass to the golden world..."
It doesn’t matter what the lovers question. The answers from night are the same: hoot owl, tree frog, twig-snap. A neighbor calls to her dog. A fire siren summons the men. Old songs drift out from a speaker on the porch. The lovers at their fire study each flame as inquiry: what next? what next? Too stubborn to accept they can’t see beyond. Any given ring of light narrow. The boundary quivers. Twelve miles away and three hundred sixty miles away, dystopia suggests itself to officials in the capitals. Signs of it all the way out here. On the lawns, surnames of those staking claim. But no trace of authority on the hill. And what little the creek says on the matter it mumbles. Van Morrison, the one clear voice: We were born before the wind.
His arm around her
shoulder. Her hand on his thigh.
Light on both faces.
© Carolee Bennett 2017
Carolee Bennett is an artist and poet living in Upstate New York, where – after a local, annual poetry competition – she has fun saying she has been the “almost” poet laureate of Smitty’s Tavern.
link to my blog: https://
plus, i rage against the man (often) & talk poetry (sometimes) on twitter: https://twitter.com/
Editors Note: Bennett Hill is not named after Carolee but there are those of us who would like to perpetuate that myth. ;););)