The Dry Stone Waller Revisits Spring's Surfacing Fieldstones
Before stones of eggs hatch feathered heads
or tadpoles eel from gel-a-ti-nous embryos,
fieldstones crown the brown, thawing ground
and, after decades of mid-wifing stones,
I'm so smitten with my youthful marvel exhumed
in desiring, like a child around puppies,
to lift each newborn up, turn them over,
and run hands over wet heads and torsos,
that, over supper, my wife spies the young buck
who, long ago, abruptly frostheaved her life
and, that evening, she loves me so much
that, as I thust up and up and up in lust,
I'm like a rising stone given a second life,
and I welcome hands gripping my schist hips
before feet scamper the granite shoulders
and, when it's over, one warm fingertip
alights the forehead's cliff, slides down the
face-wall of the jowels, and, like the lost hiker
in the White Mountains, seems to know home
is somewhere close, now that she stares into
that familiar old-man-on-the-mountain nose.
A poem, by Dennis Camire, whose chapbook of poems about Dry Stone Walls (being published by Fishing Line Press) will be coming out shortly.
