I want to remonstrate

 

The dog gulps at silted pools.
I could work this metaphor full tilt,

But it's a long, hot run, the disused
Mining road steeply carved by dead fools,

And I have to concentrate.
I guess something about making do,

Using what's available. But that leads,
As does everything in these too-late

Days, to inside-out thoughts of you.
Was I just available, a dull pool

Beside a steep trail? It seems incredible.
Maybe this isn't a poem. Maybe it's a letter.

And I want to remonstrate.
How do you know the muddy

Slough is really just a puddle,
Not a seep fed from a high place?

Or a something welling from the deep?
How did you know, really,

That you'd had enough of me,
What parts of me did you not see?

Perhaps the reflected peaks
Or something stirring frightened you.

Well, I was deeper, darker than
You dreamed. None of this speaks

Well for your character, though in my
Imagination, there is still room

For you to change. And now the road is strewn
Wtih loose rock, the sun stares, the dog's eyes

Glaze. And I have been running an hour
A4nd a half. I have no breath to argue,

Barely voice to dissuade the dog
From sludgy pools that still show sky

And mountains, and the gutted rock,
And ponderosas all around.

 

 

Caring for the arrangement

If a rose wilts, submerge entire flower and stem in tub or tray of warm water and straighten. Allow rose about 2 hours underwater to revive.

--"How to Care for Your Rose Arrangement," Directions with Bouquet

 

Only one of them recovered.
It was a day when everything
Seemed to need me: the fire
Faltered whenever I ducked
Into the study, the cats fought;
A friend called, needing a job,
Bewildered by Monster.com.

Only one of them recovered.
Sent by my widowed lover,
Whose wife's best friend is dying
As she did, disturbing his grief,
Which anyway was taking
More than a tub of warm water
And a million new kisses to ease,
Like aged women they bathed, pinking
The ceramic sink, rising to drip
From their mason jar in the dim kitchen
Of my house on the canyon's dark side.

Focus on how red they are,
Saturated, not another
Drop of mingled light will they bear.
See how they light the dinge, though now
From the worn hearts the petals fall--
Look hard at the red, the bent crowns,
One standing tall.

 

 

Revision

 

What if the one who came
To the tower was not a prince,
Was just a man with strong arms
And a broad back. A stone
Mason, perhaps, or a farmer,
But not inspired by that role.
A man inspired by the weight
Of her head on his shoulder,
Who liked to talk and share good
Drink and song with his good
Wife. Who just happened

To find her there, atop
her tower in the wilderness.
The prince is still far off,
Searching blindly. Who knows what
He's really like? And here is
This strong meanwhile man,
This mean-well man, who
Wants to sleep with a frank
hand across her breast,
Her hair knotting in his mustache.
She may let down her hair but once,
It seems. That is the rule. The prince

Wil not look past the empty tower,
Will not find her in a peasant's hut,
Will never look in among the lambs.
She weighs fortitude
Against gratitude, and already
The hair is half undone,
Rain spearing the ocean, stones
Settling in earth. It is
An act of faith, and she will be surprised,
She will let herself be surprised
By the man who hauls himself
To her roots.

 

--Claudia Putnam

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