The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Doris Lynch
I want to package this day
inside a transparent envelope:
big, lopey snowflakes,
cottonwood bark dressed in rime
wind cascading down from el monte sagrado
as flurries mix with gilded aspen leaves.
Cold so biting and fierce that my friend,
met by chance on Montoya Street,
cocoons her miniature Dachshund protectively
inside her coat. "Too bitter for him. I sent my husband
home for the Volvo." We wait on the corner
of Kit Carson Rd. as clouds quilt earth
and one small dog seeks solace
inside a womb of down.
Joe Lynch (1926-2008)
Two months after
your death, a swathe
of fog over the neighbor's
field reminds me
of Moses's hair.
Fiercely white, shimmering,
offering a direct line to God
whose thunderous voice
reminds me of your Irish tirades
that sent us kids scurrying
to our shared beds or the prickly
woods behind Center Square Green
where our unskipped stones
created rock graves on the silty
bottom of Neshaminy Creek.
Those days, I tried so hard to be good:
report card A's, rosary beads clacked
hard, Hoover wheeled out for every
Saltine crumb, heavy trashcans
hauled down to the curb.
Succeeded too well.
Too bad, both you
and I would
a real renegade.
Someone who spurned
Moses's hair, preferring
to hack her way up
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