Landscape with Astonished Figures
       

Exactly at Bloomington-Normal,
the storm fell white-queening.
My darling, I'm so sorry
about these brute Decembers.
Turned in, turned out
of house, but do we want it

any other way?
                          The storms keep come flying,
"home in,'' 'til their object
breaks them, but
not entire.
                  We still have eyes, we still have
voiceboxes. Cries we can raise
over the trees of this park. To the breath
expressed in their lacings.

                                          Telling you things,
then, is it so bad? December, the month
of gap and slam. To sit separate,
then, saying but listen but look. But look:
We can go on like this, exclaiming
and pointing, turning from hurt
on the seemingly hurtless earth.

                                                    Delaying
and turning our backs against narrating eyes. Pointing:
(and one is reminding: Today
we saw those five wild horses).

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Copyright © 2017 Jenny Mueller All rights reserved
from State Park
Elixir Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission