Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Sonnet Number Nine

Poetry is consciousness talking to consciousness. I said that.

I live on a tidal river. I love that crazy Merrimack. And I can’t even see the sea.

This afternoon, the river grass is full November silver feathers in the sun and I suddenly remember why I live here.

The boats are almost put away.

The wilderness returns to say

I had never gone away.

That’s when we saw the harrier hawk on a newly-turned bare branch laying claim to this section of the river.

Harrier hawks are strictly territorial. They love their walls. But who doesn’t love a wall? Something there is.

I live in a brick hut surrounded by million dollar homes. But just upriver is Indian Creek—

where once I witnessed an aerial dogfight between an old bald eagle and an osprey no more than thirty feet above my head.

The osprey expertly outmaneuvered the eagle and flew away with the fish.

But I was just about to say when Truth broke in—

projection is the name of the dream; don’t wear it out.

A sonnet is like an epic koan.

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