National Poetry Month

Poem for the day.
Gifts II

We all fear loss: of people, of things,

of what is familiar.  We fear change,

which, often enough, is our only

salvation.  I love this home I’ve made,

this small farm, my healthy hens

wandering the orchard, my dog who

now digs up the backyard on a long

treasure hunt after voles, children’s art,

paintings by Russian friends, even a

ragged orange sari from Nabaneeta,

given forty-five years ago and taped

to my desk to be a curtain, this

writing chair I’ve made a new cover

for five times in more than forty years,

and written in it more than eighty

books.  The climate worsens.  Growing

my food is harder each year.  If

fracking comes, I will leave.  It

means giving all this loved property

away.  These hundreds of gifts

will make me richer.  I already

see what will happen.  The single

student I had in my winter class,

whom I scolded more than praised,

now brings me raspberry canes,

tomato, pepper, and okra plants.

I took Robert eggs, and he burned

off one of my tree stumps in the

meadow.  I am reprimanded.  I

forgot the mystery of the gift,

which has to move.  The secret

of eternal life then? 

Give it all away.

Judy Hogan