North of Boston
BY MAGGIE DIETZ
Hoarfrost coats and cuffs
the playing fields, a heyday
of glistening. So there's hope
in my throat as I walk across them
to the woods with my chest
flung open, spilling its coins.
The light so bright I can hear it,
a silver tone like a penny whistle.
It's fall, so I'm craving pine cones.
Hundreds of maples the color
of bulldozers!
But something strange
is going on: the trees are tired
of meaning, sick of providing
mystery, parallels, consolation.
"Leave us alone," they seem to cry,
with barely energy for a pun.
The muscular river crawls on
its belly in a maple coat of mail.
Muddy and unreflective, it smells
as if it too could use some privacy.
The sumac reddens like a face,
holding out its velvet pods
almost desperately. The Queen
Anne's Lace clicks in the wind.
A deaf-mute milkweed
foaming at the mouth.
Back at the field I look
for what I didn't mean
to drop. The grass is green.
Okay, Day,
my host, I want to get out
of your house. Come on, Night,
with your twinkly stars and big
dumb moon. Tell me don't
show me, and wipe that grin
off your face.
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