Starting
for Hannah
No journey
is started alone.
A look in the eyes
of the dog, the light
of a late-winter moon,
the sycamores
shedding their bark
in the thaw.
From each an offering,
if only mute parables
for this molting life,
this shedding of skins
and of light, and of whatever
meek fragrance that is us
that meets us
when we step
through the gate.
Thought
The poem “Starting” was written for my friend Hannah. She and her husband lived in a farmhouse with a barn and maybe a few outbuildings. There was a white picket fence with a gate out front and a large sycamore tree. This was near Iowa City—a university town, with people moving in and out at regular and frequent intervals. Friendships, therefore, were often tentative. Not so with Hannah. I have not seen her in decades, but I feel like we would pick up where we left. She grew up in a Quaker family and was very comfortable allowing silent durations during a conversation. Somehow her quiet thoughtfulness inspired this poem. She was leaving or I was leaving, the gate, the sycamore, their three-legged border collie. . . .
Published in World Order, Spring/Summer 1987
