I went into the garage to clear
Some trash into their bins and caught my eyes
Looking at the stack of books we have stored there,
Some classics, some not so, and then all but buried
There, the one, the master for me,
A book of Kinnell’s gallant strokes.
So plentiful in your pages, in simplicity, in regular
To explain the heart of being, the felt moment,
As Fergus sinks deeper in his preponderance
Of innocence
Of love and loving,
Whatever, as you said,
What it is we mean and want to mean, is all
We want and need.
I was quiet and still there in the garage, all of it
Ready to be done and doing, sledges, axes and mixes,
Yet stilled in that moment and your words, just to be
Mattered sometime for some, who want to feel
It, who care less about knowing it. In that silent
Stack of feelings I could be together with them.
(Sometimes it’s personally important to remember that there is such a thing as poetry and poets as mindful as Galway Kinnell. Pick up any of his creations and feel the click of the human spirit.)
