Sadness descends.
Is it reading Jane Kenyon?
Because her poems
strike a melancholy chord?
Or inadequacy peeking through
as I read her line,
“the fish astonishes the air,”
knowing I would have said
“leaps into the air.”
In fact I probably have.
Not that it’s her most exquisite
line, just the one I land on
to compare and contrast.
Love is a dangerous woods for me.
Why can’t I enjoy her work
without feeling less than.
Take her as inspiration or solace
without the itinerant discouragement
I feel.
The quiet afternoons of Jane’s poems
creep up on me,
as do the ones of my own life.
In my own defense I would have
tried hard to name the fish,
and did, even though I would not
be sure if I were correct.