Beyond All Bearing. Susan Delaney Spear

dreams, it’s always light—

      unsullied brightness never ends.

      No evening shadows bring a chill;

      no silent, somber dusk descends.

      In my dreams, I wear no scars.

      Old injuries have left no trace.

      Like an oak, I stand up straight,

      and as a willow, bend with grace.

      But on this broken afternoon

      in winter’s unforgiving cold,

      promises are overdue,

      and unborn dreams too great to hold.

      A Matter of Participles

      variations on a line by Joslyn Green

      Loving

      matters

      more

      than

      being

      (loved,

      loved,

      loving)

      Being

      matters

      less than

      more. . .

      more

      loved

      than

      loving

      Matters

      being

      equal

      being

      more

      matters

      (loved,

      loving)

      than. . .

      more than

      being

      Loving

      more

      Love

      matters,

      matters

      than. . .

      loved:

      Being

      more

      loving

      Loving matters

      more than

      being loved.

      Foreshadows

      Jamaica Plain, July 2009

      Tonight belongs to grieving.

      There’s no more in between.

      Evening’s light is leaving.

      My son unlocks the screen.

      I do not beg them stay.

      They must be on their way.

      The sun will run its course

      and leave me here tonight.

      It shoulders no remorse,

      nor is my son contrite.

      Assured and passing through,

      they both have work to do.

      I’ll wait here in the dark.

      My traveling days are done.

      Tonight, the sky is stark.

      There’ll be no midnight sun.

      Grief’s countenance is stern,

      not easily unlearned.

Saints and Such

      Where Two or Three Are Gathered. . .

      After Anne Porter (1911-2011)

      A breeze breathes in and out the screen tonight.

      A pearl of moon hangs just above

      the maple leaves and spreads its quiet light

      across my desk where copies of your poems

      lie strewn, my favorites annotated.

      A glass of pinot noir has left a stain

      on page sixteen. Irreverent. Intimate.

      I can see you, Anne, squinting to study