Mudlark No. 46 (2012)

Season of Change

after a poem by Mark Strand 

There is an open field inside me; it is night, and I praise the spangle of stars.

I praise the black silk purse of sky that has never yet snapped shut.

I praise the tarnished moon and the silver clasp on the necklace of Being.

I praise the river that flows nearby and that other one inside you, with its levees and secret sloughs.

I praise the night-flying black-crowned heron and the helpless minnow clamped in its beak.

I praise the earthworm’s muddy snout, along with my amazement that he can toil underground
all his life, and by instinct alone.

I praise the cockroach’s understanding of age and necessity and the spider’s abandoned crochet work, 
its grandmotherly intricacy.

I praise the dispersed atoms of the Buddha’s feet.

I praise Dickinson’s white dress and her hand-sewn fascicles.

I praise Akhmatova’s “Yes, I can” in the prison queue in Leningrad, that shadow of a smile on what 
was once a face.

I praise the clock for stopping at 10:03 PM, when the battery ran out.

I praise the drunks in their weakness jails and the gamblers with their come-hell-or-highwater hearts.

I praise this late summer poem for having been born.

I praise the tiny swallowtail butterfly, which has landed on the white buddleia, for surviving its lonely 
metamorphosis, and

I praise the sun when it comes to call, for I am still alive to see it after all.

Susan Kelly-Dewitt | Sometimes in Autumn
Contents | Mudlark No. 46 (2012)