Possum
Sleep hangs on me
like my waders will
in the stream; enveloping
river of sleep
pulling on my head
like the river will
push against my legs
hard into the current.
Roger sleeps or
arranges, gathers the
day’s necessary,
reads or makes a
scientific prayer--
but I wait
on the front
porch steps
sitting in the dark
street’s light,
testing the damp
coolness of a
summer long before the dawn.
My waders rest
beside me, vest
atop like a gentle
slouching friend has
come to sit and share
an endless space of
time—so together
we will invest
in the night’s stars,
in low flying bats,
and big black bugs
striding down the
sidewalk—entrepreneurs
of the floating night.
I ache for the
woods in deep
shadow and
streaming morning sun.
I ache for the light
running entangled,
like naked children wild,
abandoned to direction
—joy racing down
through jumbled leaves
rushing on the forest floor
to scoop up great
handfuls of grass
and undergrowth
tossing it high.
That is off
at the end of
one of Roger’s
overheated truck rides,
donuts, coffee, and
talk in the dark
and oncoming lights.
And there is no
Roger yet, coming
round his house having
stuffed the truck
with rod and waders
vest and creel.
We wait,
my friend and I,
in momentary
expectation, in greedy
anticipation of
the stream along
with every particle of
before, and every
particle of after.
Around the house
the possum came
up the walk, a resident,
making an early morning call,
with card at the ready,
to formally present
at the front door.
We sat there, still
unfamiliar guests,
of the night.
In front of my heavy
bending head,
the possum came through
her regular round
—a daily secret path--
looking neither left nor right,
acknowledging no one,
close enough to touch.
East Lansing
October 10, 2004
East Lansing Series
©2004 Possum — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
like my waders will
in the stream; enveloping
river of sleep
pulling on my head
like the river will
push against my legs
hard into the current.
Roger sleeps or
arranges, gathers the
day’s necessary,
reads or makes a
scientific prayer--
but I wait
on the front
porch steps
sitting in the dark
street’s light,
testing the damp
coolness of a
summer long before the dawn.
My waders rest
beside me, vest
atop like a gentle
slouching friend has
come to sit and share
an endless space of
time—so together
we will invest
in the night’s stars,
in low flying bats,
and big black bugs
striding down the
sidewalk—entrepreneurs
of the floating night.
I ache for the
woods in deep
shadow and
streaming morning sun.
I ache for the light
running entangled,
like naked children wild,
abandoned to direction
—joy racing down
through jumbled leaves
rushing on the forest floor
to scoop up great
handfuls of grass
and undergrowth
tossing it high.
That is off
at the end of
one of Roger’s
overheated truck rides,
donuts, coffee, and
talk in the dark
and oncoming lights.
And there is no
Roger yet, coming
round his house having
stuffed the truck
with rod and waders
vest and creel.
We wait,
my friend and I,
in momentary
expectation, in greedy
anticipation of
the stream along
with every particle of
before, and every
particle of after.
Around the house
the possum came
up the walk, a resident,
making an early morning call,
with card at the ready,
to formally present
at the front door.
We sat there, still
unfamiliar guests,
of the night.
In front of my heavy
bending head,
the possum came through
her regular round
—a daily secret path--
looking neither left nor right,
acknowledging no one,
close enough to touch.
East Lansing
October 10, 2004
East Lansing Series
©2004 Possum — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.