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.
Copyright Credit: Maggie Dietz, "North of Boston" from Perennial Fall. Copyright © 2006 by Maggie Dietz. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.
Source: Perennial Fall (The University of Chicago Press, 2006)