Wayne Hubbard

Afterword


for Mary Oliver

i can say what i want, but the poems
are no more accidental. their outlines

stay present, trailing me through each season,
waiting for stillness to give life its chance.

they teach me how to study the winter,
how to note where the redbud leans forward

into the frostbite, how the wild grass
lets the bitter wind lay its stalks supine.

the leaves may blow dead in the fields, but they
are not broken, not lost, nor discarded.

they give their last offerings for summer’s fruits.
they ask me to follow their lead.