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The Blue Moon Review
 

 
Silver
by John Casteen
Of all the poems Iíve ever wanted to write,

thereís one that has the honey-locust blooming,

its thorns still green and malleable in late spring,

the lilt of its flowers strewn across the yard.

This is not that poem, though here in the old house



whose heartpine floors wane at each corner

I can imagine it.  That poem will only arrive 

when Iím done with houseraising, done with thrift, 

done with the blue bowl full of buttermilk

soaking venison I dressed with Peter in the fall.



That poem will arrive only when the two bands

of woven silver are finished, and all the musicís

been played, Peter and Dale have gone home

to their wives and sons, and the floorís swept:

I want to wear one of those rings, to give myself



to the poem when it arrives, to have 

the light slanting across the floorboards,

maybe rain on the way, the dooryard in order,

the wind finally rising, the choosing not to.


John Casteen lives in Virginia with his wife and daughter. Now self-employed as a designer and builder of custom furniture, he is a graduate of the Iowa Writersí Workshop and the University of Virginia; he has also worked as a farmhand, canoe guide and carpenter. His work has appeared recently in Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, and Meridian.

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