This time sickness brought me to Connecticut.
Mornings I walk the dog: that part of life
is intact. Who’s painted, who’s insulated
or put siding on, who’s burned the lawn
with lime—that’s the news on Ardmore Street.
The leaves of the neighbor’s respectable
rhododendrons curl under in the cold.
He has backed the car through the white nimbus of its exhaust
and disappeared for the day.
In a hiatus between mayors
the city has left leaves in the gutters,
and passing cars lift them in maelstroms.
We pass the house two doors down, the one
with the wildest lights in the neighborhood,
an establishment without irony.
All summer their putto empties a water jar,
their St. Francis feeds the birds.
Now it’s angels, festoons, waist-high
candles, and swans pulling sleighs.
The dog dives for a fire hydrant,
yanking me along.
A dime store postcard scene . . .
Two hundred miles north I’d let him run
among birches and the black shade of pines.
I miss the hills, the woods and stony
streams, where the swish of jacket sleeves
against my sides seems loud, and a crow
caws sleepily at dawn.
By now the streams must run under a skin
of ice, white air-bubbles passing erratically,
like bloodcells through a vein. Soon the mail,
forwarded, will begin to reach me here.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 3, on page 48
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