You, for instance,
coming upon these words
not exactly by accident
-- from "Coincidence," the first poem in Because You Might Not Remember by Don Colburn.
I don't consider myself much of a poetry reader, but I do try now and again to fix that. My friend Kirsten Rian, a talented poet in her own right as well as a teacher (and artist, and singer, and all-around Renaissance woman), helps by emailing a poem every Monday.
Now I have taken the plunge into this beautiful little book -- a "chapbook" although I don't know where the term comes from -- of poems by Don Colburn. Last evening, over martinis, Hubby and I dabbled with reading a few out loud to each other (always good to spice things up now and again).
Our favorite was this one because it reminded us of neighborhood conversations we've had over the years:
Each year we gossip about the trees,
how the dull oaks browned before they burned
or maples and sycamores let go too soon,
their rioting a shade less vulgar this time,
the stolid dogwood late to catch fire.
When the curled wan papery beech leaves cling,
maybe deep into winter, we wonder what has ended
all that flourishing, what might last.
We remember drought, rain, frost,
the strickening wind --
whether it came or didn't come.