Still Life
From a polite distance of ten or fifteen yards,
the image of the back of man or woman
in a wheelchair before a plate glass window,
shoulders hunched, head fallen to one side
as though asleep, afternoon light falling
through the glass. To the left a vase
of artificial flowers on a wooden table,
and though we can’t hear it, the unmistakable
sense of silence like silk covering the air.
Of course, we can't be sure but let's make
this person female, maybe somewhere in her
mid-eighties, and for the sake of conversation
let's imagine that she hasn’t been in front
of the window too long, at least not by
the standards of the place. Let’s tell ourselves
she was wheeled there shortly after lunch
by an aide or attendant so she could watch
for a son who is not coming today or even
tomorrow, although we could tell her tomorrow
and she’d believe us, just as easily as she’d
believe she is still in her own home until
the moment her chair turns and someone
else wheels her back to dinner in another wing.
So looking at her now, for another second,
let's do her a favor and spare our pity.
Let's convince ourselves that it’s the kind
of place where every day carries a rhythm
as regular as her heart and the weeks
eventually lose meaning, so that except
for the food, it probably isn't half bad,
and from another angle it could even be
heaven. In fact, let’s make it heaven
and let’s make the light Divine in case
she wakes and asks, although she won't ask--
trust me, but we could do that, we could do
that much for her at least before glancing
away and politely moving on.
The Couple Higher on the Hill
When we walk together in the evening,
the couple from higher on the hill
spot cormorants in the redwood,
point to a pair near the top,
two black blades against a gray sky.
Near the pond they mark how
the buffle-head ducks have returned,
begin to count white-capped males,
neckbanded females drifting by,
drawing the distinctions from coots
on the bank, equally dark and small,
with thin white bills.
This, I have come to learn, is how
they view the land, how in December
they distinguish red alder glittering
gold along the river from birch,
in April lupine from larkspur, discerning
leaf pattern, bird call, blossom,
beauty in the difference.
George Lober's poems have appeared numerous journals and e-zines, including Eclectic Literary Forum, Quarry West, The Sandhill Review, MiPoesias, The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets, and Lily. He is the author of two books of poetry, Shift of Light (Hummingbird Press, 2002) and A Bridge to There (Hummingbird Press, 2009). He is a former winner of the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry and currently lives in Carmel, California.
Next:
From a polite distance of ten or fifteen yards,
the image of the back of man or woman
in a wheelchair before a plate glass window,
shoulders hunched, head fallen to one side
as though asleep, afternoon light falling
through the glass. To the left a vase
of artificial flowers on a wooden table,
and though we can’t hear it, the unmistakable
sense of silence like silk covering the air.
Of course, we can't be sure but let's make
this person female, maybe somewhere in her
mid-eighties, and for the sake of conversation
let's imagine that she hasn’t been in front
of the window too long, at least not by
the standards of the place. Let’s tell ourselves
she was wheeled there shortly after lunch
by an aide or attendant so she could watch
for a son who is not coming today or even
tomorrow, although we could tell her tomorrow
and she’d believe us, just as easily as she’d
believe she is still in her own home until
the moment her chair turns and someone
else wheels her back to dinner in another wing.
So looking at her now, for another second,
let's do her a favor and spare our pity.
Let's convince ourselves that it’s the kind
of place where every day carries a rhythm
as regular as her heart and the weeks
eventually lose meaning, so that except
for the food, it probably isn't half bad,
and from another angle it could even be
heaven. In fact, let’s make it heaven
and let’s make the light Divine in case
she wakes and asks, although she won't ask--
trust me, but we could do that, we could do
that much for her at least before glancing
away and politely moving on.
The Couple Higher on the Hill
When we walk together in the evening,
the couple from higher on the hill
spot cormorants in the redwood,
point to a pair near the top,
two black blades against a gray sky.
Near the pond they mark how
the buffle-head ducks have returned,
begin to count white-capped males,
neckbanded females drifting by,
drawing the distinctions from coots
on the bank, equally dark and small,
with thin white bills.
This, I have come to learn, is how
they view the land, how in December
they distinguish red alder glittering
gold along the river from birch,
in April lupine from larkspur, discerning
leaf pattern, bird call, blossom,
beauty in the difference.
George Lober's poems have appeared numerous journals and e-zines, including Eclectic Literary Forum, Quarry West, The Sandhill Review, MiPoesias, The Anthology of Monterey Bay Poets, and Lily. He is the author of two books of poetry, Shift of Light (Hummingbird Press, 2002) and A Bridge to There (Hummingbird Press, 2009). He is a former winner of the Ruth Cable Memorial Prize for Poetry and currently lives in Carmel, California.
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