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Three Poems by Antony Di Nardo

Photo by Todd Quackenbush from Unsplash

Nickel

First time for the moon, first time for the sun,
            first time for the both of us, Nickel and me,
him in his field
                        galloping over to the cedar rail,
ears tipped to greet and touch my hand,
                                                            feel my breath,
the trees letting out that one syllable sigh
                                                they master
in the space of a lifetime.
 
For one brief moment – it’s electric – I sense
                                                the universe collapsing
            into all we have between us.
 
That four-year old paint knows everything I do,
            that he needs to know,
                                    but I have what he wants
and I write it down for him in apples
                                                and its alphabet.
            I use up an entire store of syllables
to say my name and who I am and where I’m from,
but it’s my breath, and nothing more,
                                    that Nickel needs to read.
 
Photo by Wes Hicks from Unsplash

In the Hills of Appalachia

Big ideas coming down from the hills
                        and bigger yet I get lost among the leaves,
that cool green element in the upper Appalachians.
 
Big trees get bigger every day
                        and yet somehow never linger forever.
Same goes for the folk in the valley.
 
Bye-bye lilies, it’s the last of you today, gone to God
                                                                        knows where.
The pretty pinks have also gone
                                    and the banjo-picking peepers.
 
A few words can make everything so real.
 
One less lily and the impossible iris of yesterday is now
                                                in a world of its own.
 
There are some reflections only I can see
                                                and some only when
                                    the light’s turned on, as it is
at this very moment,
            green right through in the hills of Appalachia.
 
Photo by Joran Quinten from Unsplash

Imagine

that the sun has yet to leave
                        and it’s almost at the point of no return
that time of day when the lake’s not as lively
            and the sheen of its watery lustre is dimming.
 
Lilies are beginning to fall apart, the shrapnel of petals
                        in a soft explosion.
 
The old ways of doubling up are vanishing for now,
            the water’s surface a blank that keeps you guessing
what’s real and what was once in deep reflection.
 
Trees are losing their sight
                                    and the big green spaces diminishing,
flattened in the persistent gloaming,
                                                            green to dark green
then black as blindness hovering below the withering
                        until there’s nothing left to see but darkness,
tight as a fist.
 
The old ways may be changing—the absence of light
                                                marks the end of the lilies,
but whatever you imagine beyond today
                                    that might come tomorrow
                                                                        was here before.
 
Photo by Agata Marie from Unsplash

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