Poetry selection from the 2009 issue
by Mary Makofske
The light tracks me all day, sitting at my desk,
late afternoon now. Air holds its breath,
barely a tremble in the fountain grass,
the box elder leaning against the glass,
a small plane droning low over the hills.
Does it seem leisurely? Does all seem well?
Today I composed more and more
fervent letters to the editors
of every local paper, why it must change,
why we must think who we are, as the same
that is never the same turned over leaves
that flamed or quietly browned. What dies,
what thrives in the garden every year
is different, unpredictable. Our share’s
enough, we can’t change the weather,
we used to say, though now we know better.
Too late moves toward us faster
than the fast-retreating glaciers.
We keep thinking we’ll advance forever.