Poem of the Week, by Dean Young

Restoration Ode

- Dean Young

What tends toward orbit and return,

comets and melodies, robins and trash trucks

restore us. What would be an arrow, a dove

to pierce our hearts restore us. Restore us

minutes clustered like nursing baby bats

and minutes that are shards of glass. Mountains

that are vapor, mice living in cathedrals,

and the heft and lightness of snow restore us.

One hope inside dread, "Oh what the hell"

inside "I can't" like a pearl inside a cake

of soap, love in lust in loss, and the tub

filled with dirt in the backyard restore us.

Sunflowers, let me wait, let me please

see the bridge again from my smacked-up

desk on Euclid, jog by the Black Angel

without begging, dream without thrashing.

Let us be quick and accurate with the knife

and everything that dashes restore us,

salmon, shadows buzzing in the wind,

wren trapped in the atrium, and all

that stills at last, my friend's cat,

a pile of leaves after much practice,

and ash beneath the grate, last ember

winked shut restore us. And the one who comes

out from the back wiping his hands on a rag,

saying, "Who knows, there might be a chance."

And one more undestroyed, knocked-down nest

stitched with cellophane and dental floss,

one more gift to gently shake

and one more guess and one more chance.



–

For more information on Dean Young, please click here.