I've worked on this poem and shown it to poetry group friends and worked on it some more, and still I feel like it is not there yet. I know I'm too close to it—and I want this poem to be perfect.
I thought that maybe I could ask for some help on this weblog. Any thoughts? I'm open to suggestions.
Still You Linger
Sharp and dry, wind scuffs stubble,
each mown blade rubbed stiff.
If ghosts walk such furrowed fields,
I see you there, as tall as summer.
I never knew you in this east,
only on the ocean side
where rain mists down to the dirt,
pools in puddles, streams to sea.
The week you died, all currents drove north,
sought the sound’s cold mouth.
Looking west, I saw you in spruce and sky,
in skeins of shadowed water.
Still you linger, a trick of light—
A stranger crossing the street,
memories as thick as crows.
I see you in a giant sky,
wide gyre of red-winged hawk,
and strain to hear the wheat’s voice—
what stays and stays.
Tears are not enough.
Salt will not till the ground.