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| My neighborhood, Los Angeles 2014 |
Islands and Figs
The sky
on and on,
stone.
The Mediterranean
down the cliff,
stone.
These fields,
rock.
Dead weeds
everywhere.
And the weight
of sun.
In the weeds
an old woman
lifting off
snails.
Near
two trees
of ripe figs.
The heart
never fits
the journey.
Always
one ends
first.
Jack Gilbert
And that poem describes my trip to Mexico too. One always ends first.
ReplyDeleteI don't know how this happens. But once again the poem you post is just so very fitting.
ReplyDeletePeggy E.
I selected that poem to read tonight to Dan
ReplyDeleteYou post the most amazing poems.
ReplyDeleteThank you.
Wow, that is so true -- a traveler is always beyond ready to come home, or not ready at all. I've never thought of it that way before.
ReplyDelete