Fall 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 4 Poetry |


After Brigit Pegeen Kelly This may be my last request. This may be the last morning the mud cups my boots, and the shoots from the moss send up their red antennae to broadcast what the mud whispers. Let it go on whispering, to tell the stumps how to rot gently. And the shelf-mushrooms how to slowly slipper down. To assure the red maple it's OK to undress now, and the brides of the pond they may lift their veils. Let the last kiss last, and the frost know this one's a slow dance— how very green the grass yet, the grub still snuggling down. And as the snow plows grumble in their cages, hot to slow the traffic down and chase deer off these pages, and as cedar chests belch hats and mittens soft as animals in hiding, let the woodpecker's knocking —that cold and lonely sound— be a long string of ellipses before your answer.

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