Saturday, May 31, 2014

Palm, Blue Sky, Bougainvillea

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

5 comments:

  1. And that poem describes my trip to Mexico too. One always ends first.

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  2. I don't know how this happens. But once again the poem you post is just so very fitting.
    Peggy E.

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  3. I selected that poem to read tonight to Dan

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  4. You post the most amazing poems.
    Thank you.

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  5. 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.

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