Words That Burn

For An American Burial, by George Starbuck (1931-1996)

Night Life, by Vivian Smith (1933-)

Praise Song for the Day, by Elizabeth Alexander (1962-)

On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup, by William Oldys (1696-1761)

Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
Drink with me and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine ’s a summer, mine ’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one!

*A score is twenty, so threescore is sixty, the infamous “four score and seven years ago” is eighty-seven.

The Snowbound City, by John Haines (1924-2011)

Profile of the Night Heron, by Anne Pierson Wiese (1964-)

In the Brooklyn Botanic Garden the night
heron is on his branch of his tree, blue
moon curve of his body riding low
above the pond, leaves dipping into water
beneath him, green and loose as fingers.
On the far shore, the ibis is where
I left him last time, a black cypher
on his rock. These birds, they go to the right
place every day until they die.

There are people like that in the city,
with signature hats or empty attaché cases,
expressions of private absorption fending
off comment, who attach to physical
locations—a storefront, a stoop, a corner,
a bench—and appear there daily as if for a job.
They negotiate themselves into the pattern
of place, perhaps wiping windows, badly,
for a few bucks, clearing the stoop of take-out
menus every morning, collecting the trash
at the base of the walk/don’t walk sign
and depositing it in the garbage can.

Even when surfaces change, when the Mom & Pop
store becomes a coffee bar, when the park
benches are replaced with dainty chairs and a pebble
border, they stay, noticing what will never change:
the heartprick of longitude and latitude
to home in on, the conviction that life
depends, every day, on what outlasts you.

The Chambered Nautilus, by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

Search, by Hester Knibbe (1946-)

In the Park, by Gwen Harwood (1920-1995)

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt.
Someone she loved once passes by — too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice, ” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon… “but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive,”
she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing
the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.
To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

The Snow Queen, by Dollie Radford (1858-1920)

The Snow Queen passed by our way last night,

Between the darkness and the light,

And flowers from an enchanted star

Fell showerlike from her flying car.

And silently through all the hours,

The trees have borne their magic flowers

And now stand up with dauntless head,

To catch the morning’s gold and red.