Well,
Jeff Bahr has called me out, and since he rarely does this, I will respond. Jeff has asked that people post their favorite of their own poems. Of course, I need to specify that my favorite of my own poems changes on a daily basis. I many times think the most recently written poem of mine is my favorite. That said, the following poem is very special to me, for obvious reasons. It documents for me the first time I held Jacob's hand in public (well, in my car). It isn't my best poem. So, no pretense there. But I like it for very selfish reasons. It documents something in my life, which most of my poems do not. So, here it is (despite having been posted on this blog not that long ago):
The Dream of Autumn after Rain
Preoccupied with its treatise on viticulture,
the road winds its way through Dry Creek Valley
down past the aluminum shack and up past
the rotting fence crawling with stray vines
and the fields, an endless proof for parallel lines,
glimmering in the just-washed light that follows rain,
the fields of
Vitis vinifera forced to color by the season--
amber, rusts, a freckling of crimson and pale gold.
What is it that calls us to the road?
Even without a radio, we hear Vivaldi
as the corners take us, and the fields
shimmer off this way and that, the roadside
still wet and the leaves lifting alongside us
as we race through the valley drunk on the idea
of order, of all those lines challenging each other.
The finicky white varietal from the Rhone valley
tricked into growing on a windy, terraced hillside,
the valley with its muscular creek, itself a contradiction,
the warmth of your hand holding mine fast--
how could I not dream that you dreamt about me?
Yes, I know. So sappy. But it is still one of my favorites.
