This poem was written late today in response to a photograph, “Early Morning Clouds in Water,” a picture prompt posted earlier by Christina Raskopf Norcross.
As a child I loved lying on my back in the grass and watching the sky. I saw faces, animals, and more in the clouds. In my first published book, “House By the Sea”, long out of print, I wrote “To the Giant Cloudbirds.” a poem I post below this new one. Even while only in my thirties, I was already probing the mystery of time, the potential of loss.
During these mostly at-home days in New Jersey, I sometimes find myself doubting whether life as we remember it will ever be “normal” again. I am increasingly aware of time passing, of both human and planetary fragility, and of our inevitable mortality. And although I'm not *that* old yet, the perspective of years can remind us what's most important to give our attention to, especially when we need comfort. So here's today's poem.
______________________________
In Old Age
In old age my purpose changes.
I become a gatherer of clouds
from blue waters, row out most
dappled days to net them in my
well-worn seine and stow them
in my trusty canoe for when I
might need them on a day too
bright to see.
In old age I gather clouds from
still waters, fill the corners of
my cabin with gentle murmurs,
find comfort in their slow shape-
shifting that mirrors my own . . .
in old age . . . .
(c) 2020 Penny Harter
_______________________________
To the Giant Cloudbirds
I know you
from the old tales
from tribal memories
of my Cherokee great-grandma,
you gray birds of cloud
whose wingspread
arcs the sunset.
Motionless
thrusts
of beak and feather
from another world-age
you are gone to smoke and dust,
you are ghosts
in whose wake curl delicate
black waves.
Now you darken the sky
giant guardians
ancient birdgods
gone.
© 1975 Penny Bihler, in “House By the Sea”, my first published chapbook long out of print.
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