I only post a poem here about once a year; this is supposed to be more about the process than the product, and on things that might be of interest to readers and writers of poetry. However, this is the (nearly) final draft of the poem for the final assembly of senior students I want to read in a week or two:
So, at last it’s finally now.
It seems lately we were living
always in the unnoticed moment,
never entirely there, not actual.
Look at how real it all seems suddenly,
everything so vivid and so clear.
This is late light
on a dark flock of birds,
and when they turned away
the sun came all on them
and their wings were broad and white
and they shone separately.
This is the abandonment of first flocks,
the closing of doors
and their openings too.
What summary can we make?
we who are impatient for a moral.
Things change? Some grow wings?
You leave with our love, our envy even,
all those entrances, the pattern-less sky
to fill with your clear lines.
This is the moment after the waiting,
before the songs fade
the actual moment; hold to it.
This is not a morning for conclusions.
You are moving on, the time is right:
the ivy is in glossy leaf,
ti-tree in its fine white flower,
the signs are good,
now throw those glass doors open.