Monday Poem


the way it
comes, goes,
surges, disappears,
a perfect metaphor
for shapes of time,
overused as moon
for that which vanishes
and reappears.

quiet now, the wedding past
too much so—
a house that buzzed
now hushed, silence loud
sharp, slimmer
than a midnight crescent

silence also
comes, goes
empties, spills, ebbs and fills,
evaporates and billows like a cloud
above a sugarbush still
boiling down sweet water
for its essence

by Jim Culleny