Each day the engine of my gratefulness
must be coaxed and primed into action.
Of course like any old clunker,
it would just as soon stay put.
For even after the labored start beats the inertia,
and the plume of white smoke struggles upward,
the same hills always appear,
soaring daily – tall and ominous as before.
There is the long slow hill of “aging”
so gradual and smooth at first.
And then that steep grade called “the news.”
Yes, and always some mountain of a war
looming out there, never too far in the distance.
Even an old idea or a feeling long abandoned
might conspire to halt this fragile progress –
valves sputtering, tires flattening, clutch slipping.
But the old “potato, potato, potato” sound
of the engine, and all its mysterious fuel,
for which I am truly grateful
keeps stumbling along.
All rights reserved.
Posted with kind permission of the poet.
Listen to the poet, Dale Biron, read this poem:
We humus-honed flesh-toned matte-finished mortals dwell on the dome of a miracle: a sparkling and…
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
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