Sunday Morning

Now it is June again, one of those
leafy Sundays drifting through galaxies
of maple seeds. Somewhere, a mourning dove
touches her keyboard twice, a lonely F,
and then falls silent. Here in the house
the Sunday papers lie in whitecaps
over the living-room floor. Among them floats
the bridal page, that window of many panes,
reflecting, black and white, patches of sky
and puffs of starlit cloud becoming
faces. On each bright brow the same light falls,
the nuptial moon held up just out of sight
to the left. The brides all lift their eyes
and smile to see the heavens stopped for them.
And love is everywhere. Cars that have all week
lurched and honked with sour commuters are now
like smooth canoes packed soft with families.
A church bell strides through the green perfume
of locust trees and tolls its thankfulness.
The mourning dove, to her astonishment,
blunders upon a distant call in answer.

-Ted Kooser

Ode

A Monday in May

It rained all weekend,
but today the peaked roofs
are as dusty and warm
as the backs of old donkeys
tied in the sun.
So much alike are our houses,
ours lives. Under every eave--
leaf, cobweb, and feather;
and for each front yard
one sentimental maple,
who after a shower has passed
weeps into her shadow
for hours.

--Ted Kooser

National Poetry Month

I have always claimed to be a poetry agnostic, however, several years ago Valerie posted a poem that absolutely knocked my socks off. She supplied me with a list with recommended poets, starting with Mary Oliver and Billy Collins. Being in a library, I had endless choices and even found the trendy Charles Bukowski to be delightful. I'm happy to know there is more to poetry than The New Yorker and Robert Pinsky. I have fallen completely in love the poetry of Ted Kooser and hated to let this month get by without sharing a poem.

In an Old Apple Orchard

The wind's an old man
to this orchard; these trees
have been feeling
the soft tug of his gloves
for a hundred years.
Now it's April again,
and again that old fool
thinks he's young.
He's combed the dead leaves
out of his beard; he's put on
perfume. He's gone off
late in the day
toward the town, and come back
slow in the morning,
reeling with bees.
As late as noon, if you look
in the long grass
you can see him
still rolling about in his sleep.

A Fencerow in Early March

The last snowdrifts
have drawn themselves up
out of the light
clinging to winter.
Beyond them,
a muddy stubble field
has sponged up
all the darkness--
the February nights,
the iron stoves,
the ink of every letter
written in longing.
And the fencerow
goes on, up and over
the next low rise
and the next, casting
a cold, white shadow,
each gate still closed
to spring.

Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States

Late September

Late September by Ted Kooser

Behind each garage a ladder
sleeps in the leaves, its hands
folded across its lean belly.
There are hundreds of them
in each town, and more
sleeping by haystacks and barns
out in the country - tough old
day laborers, seasoned and wheezy,
drunk on the weather,
sleeping outside with the crickets.

from Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985