Edwin's poem is about passing things, & things that are steadfast through time...
I got into a college (Brown) on the strength of some high school poems. & stuck around here, writing on & off, for 45 years. I just learned a few days ago that a poem of mine has been accepted for publication in that venerable American institution, Poetry magazine. So maybe something at least has come of it all - so many wayward years in Roger's city-state, his "refuge for troubled conscience"!
in memory E.H.
This windy gray October day,
fat robin camouflaged
(hoodie?) in dogwood’s
rusty green... & then the great gray
beech I passed this morning (Slater
& Lincoln). Elephantine,
primordial, in motion
still (old pre-Socratic critter)...
Edwin’s tree, his 100-branching
crown – the graying King
of Gray, still whistling
to Even Dove, down never-dying
Dolphin Way (led by leaping sparks
into Ravenna). O patient
rude dream-sponge – intent
to wrestle safety shroud across stark
span! – your International Pumpkin Man
lit from within (warm
orange flame)... No harm
shall come to thee, my child – listen!
In a corner of a lumber yard
one sharp-eyed old saint
(framed by gray paint
cans, wagon) waves palm upward
toward the dark sheep-door, just
over his shoulder – where
one candle shivers fire.
An endless jet, he whispers. Trust.
Beech tree on Slater Ave., Providence