I preach to myself on Red Hill Road
that I’ve had it all, all I could hope for:
the older and the younger Cambridge;
Paris…playing Hemingway;
mist on the mountains, blue-brilliant sky,
and just at the edge of a treeful hollow
a wonder: a fossil toe-print, one—
where some dancer
touched brilliantly down?
Below the Shrine House, courting his hen,
a peacock struts, flurries his fan
with its quivering purple eyes. The world
couldn’t be more astonishing
if he were spitting gems.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
