Song
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Tarnish to tarnish,
Rust to rust.
Raindrop to raindrop,
Sun to sun.
Night is now finished,
Day has begun.
Birdsong or plainsong?
Coffee or tea?
Umbrellas make boats
on the briny sea.
Look! Cows are leaping
Over the moon,
As we coin shining words
For a dark old tune.
Leslie Schultz
I am very excited to be able to share work from my new collection of poems, Concertina, here in Northfield. I hope you can join me, musician Jake Bastyr of New Prague, and friends, family, and neighbors to celebrate local poetry and music! Admission is free. Questions? Drop me a line at yogapoet@gmail.com. LESLIE
Vranac
for Julia and Bob Denne
I tasted a little once,
a glass you brought—
fragrant, clear but dense—
berry tarred
with burnt oak,
flavors of summer
churned into late
autumn. Ripened
and bottled on a slope
in Montenegro,
that wine held fast
the ombres
of dark red velvet,
slightly sun-faded,
like covers
of old hymnals.
This spring, between
squalls of late snows,
you offer photographs—
shy woodland
blooms, rising
into chill green air:
red trillium—
strong pulse,
black earth and flame,
intoxicating hue
that I never before knew.
Now, I am drinking it in.
Thank you.
Leslie Schultz
Weathering
What is raised up in a storm of bright hope
lifts the heart, too. We work together
to make dreams come true. Can we make them stay?
We tend, cultivate, patch, paint, and repair—
year after year after eventful year—
and our dreams support us, provide a roof
to shelter honorable, essential work.
For a while. For the winds of change decree
nothing lasts for always in the same way.
Cathedrals can combust in Gothic flames.
Prairie storms can derange the upstanding beams
of barns that have held our generations.
Demolished dreams clear the ground for different seed,
those new chapters we mightily resist, but need.
Leslie Schultz
Zebras
I fashion zebras
however I can.
Each one is distinct,
printed with
patterns decreed
under her skin.
I know that the wild
herds in my mind
will not stampede
across this page.
They are fierce, free,
run where they will.
Each zebra is shy
of reins, contains
whole rainbows,
has no need of me,
but still I sing to each.
I summon them by
stroking black ink
on fields of blank
white. Maybe they
will turn, catch me
in nets cast by
their bold stripes.
Then, just
for a moment,
I can stand near,
breathe alongside.
Leslie Schultz
