The Converted
When those doves come for their evening weep
And the last sun kneels till the lawn is lit
From underneath,
When the tiny bats begin their arcs around the porch
And the older goats remember,
Running for the stable door,
The sky cracks again; the inexhaustible pours in.
Breezes swing down into fields, amulets.
Leaves chatter against the flagstone. Each house steadies
Into night like an airplane, silver propellers of light
Nosing out. The dog stands in front of the TV: Heston
Is Moses and Moses in color. Suddenly all is conspiracy.
Night dark pushes out the cold stone of moon; each lightbulb
Chooses a star to convert, to bring down.
*
Hello Friends —
Today’s poem opens Sophie Cabot Black‘s first book, The Misunderstanding of Nature (1994).
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. If you wish to be unsubscribed from this Poem-a-Day email list at any time, please reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic couplet form). You may also request to add a consenting friend to the list, or even nominate a poem.
To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.
Enjoy.
Ellen