Sunday, September 4, 2016

THE RIVER

The River

Here the elements converge – earth, air, water, light.
         The river surface a rippling mirror of color
         in motion, blue sky, gray clouds, green
                  and amber canopies of leaves.
                  Turtles slip from rocks,
                           trout snap at insects. Deer, song bird,
                           fox, coyote, heron – predator and prey gather
                                    on its banks, laced with moss and peat.
                                    Lush with life, death. Autumn leaves,
                           decaying flesh and vegetation
                           settle into the fetid, fertile silt,
                  nourish river life the way
                  memories nourish the living.
         Amorphous, the river absorbs
         spring rains, gains strength,
                  swells with torrents,
                  folds in on itself,
                           folds oxygen into
                           foaming white waters.
                                    In summer, the shallow river flows,
                                    in winter, frozen over, beneath it flows.
                                             Still the river remains constant,
                                             knows its path. If you become lost,
                           follow the river as it meanders
                           down the mountain, makes its way
                  from source to mouth,
                  just as blood knows
                           its way around the body,
                           traveling from and to the heart.


- Diane Dolphin


The River first appeared in Poetry and Art, gallery exhibit and anthology, Wickford Art Association, RI, 2016. © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

Sunday, August 7, 2016

RESONANCE

Resonance


Last evening, as I drove home
along the old back roads,
with the maples lulling
their colors to sleep
and yellow lights
blinking on in
quiet houses,
I thought,
this is right,
this much I know,
and the violin and
Emmylou crooned in agreement
with me, and I felt myself break open

the way storm clouds broke open, spilling light,
as if from their souls, across the fields
as we walked along the orchard ridge
lined with young pear trees
under the fractured sky,
and as we made our
way to the pond,
the blue heron
took flight
before us.

Resonance was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University).  
© 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

All Would Be Still


All Would Be Still


The rhododendrons
have hunkered into winter.
Thin, intertwined birches
reflect perfect twins
on the surface of the freshwater inlet.
Tall tawny grasses along water’s edge
waver so slightly, it’s like watching
a lover breathe.

All would be still, but the sparrows—
frenetic—flit, dart, dive,
alight on slight branches,
startle others who burst skyward
or drop to the ground.
They appear to collide midair,
break apart like split atoms.
Shrill quarrels pierce
the windowed wall through which
I watch.

I wish I could paint for you
flashes of crimson breast or blue crest
but they’re the color
of wintered leaves.
This is not a still life, and I
do not sit on a museum bench.
The sky has dulled, unsettled.
Pale sunlight peers from beyond
the firs. I pull on my coat,
slide open the glass door.

All Would Be Still was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University). 
 © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

Counting in Circles (Eighth Anniversary)


Counting in Circles
(Eighth Anniversary)

I remove 4 red roses from the dozen, don’t want to
discard them, although they’re already dying.
For the 8th year, his parents and brothers pull up in two cars
at Swan Point and we meet in the garden.

For the 8th time, his mother wonders if he hears us and I
tell them how my grandmother always said she still talked to
my grandfather, how I’d tell her that’s natural and she’d say
but he talks back.

For the 7th time, we joke about putting the dog’s ashes in
beside his and would there still be room for me.
For the 8th time, she says he’s not here and I say
I still feel him in the house and then we get in our cars
and drive to the restaurant on the river for her birthday.
Today she is 90. Her son was 58. In 7 years I will become
older than him, just as I outgrew my mother at 41.

For the 2,920th day, I tell myself stories about us. Once upon
a very finite time in a very particular place. But then
there’s quantum physics. Once my husband grabbed me
as I stepped off the curb and I saw myself split off, get smacked
by the passing bus.

If we could choose our date of demise would we?
So we knew exactly what we were counting up to,
counting down to. Would the dimension of each day
expand or contract in relation to what remained?

Scientists spend lifetimes radioing signals into galaxies, listening
for thousands-year-old calls. Tonight, I sit in my driveway, watch
the stone walls of my 200-year-old cottage shift color in the fading
light and think if I’m going to stay I might as well go inside,
take off my coat and own it a while.

Counting in Circles (Eighth Anniversary) was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University). © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.