What a day to dismantle a roller-coaster. Well, they are taking it down-- the tracks are all over the ground and the ties drawn up. The ticket office is shut, the calliope covered with tarps.
These workmen move their rides from town to town, with the weather, and a day gained dismantling is a day to them. They are grateful for the day gained, and for the silence in a park where only ducks and I remain.
As if against the numb fall sky, sounds of hammers and crowbars and the changing voice of one man's oldest son rebound from pond to light pole and away. Tomorrow they'll be on their way to Arkansas, or a place they haven't been before; today they're making time.
Today they're making time. The doors of the van are open, the van is dark. The cars stand there in a line, as if they are not well or have something to tell the man who stands on the tail-gate. This corner of the park is nearly flat.
- by Peter Klappert36
Thirty feet from my windows, an old kennel-wire fence thickly grown over with honeysuckle, poison ivy, and wild roses just beginning to open into the loose sort of droopy garlands an aesthetic young farmer might drape around Elsie or Dobbin.
....................Where the wire ends and the knotted up, spiraling vines paw toward more light, six slim grey trunks of chokecherry feather into leaves and clusters of blossoming fronds that lift and fall with the breeze like diminutive mare's tails --each separate flower a rose, each separate flower three-eighths of an inch of white disk, radiant about a head of yellow-gold stamens.
Beyond the chokecherries and a rutted road, beyond locusts posts and barbed wire, a deepening pasture lights up with ranunculus, "little frogs" for some reason, lights up --in fact--with buttercups as clouds move sunlight around.
And beyond them, veiled and perhaps faintly blue in the distance, broadly lit by the same shifting light, four rounded green mountains, on the nearest and tallest of which someone has built a white silo and low barn--or more likely some kind of radar station that talks all night to darkness, some kind of early warning, perhaps an observatory.
............................. ..........I'm just happy to stand here, and hold my vote close, white-blinded and stupidly gazing into random galaxies and minor constellations, starbursts of yellow-haired stamens in white corollas.
Poems by Peter Klappert, Peter Klappert's poems collection. Peter Klappert is a classical and famous poet . Share all poems of Peter Klappert.