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Patrick Pierce
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Patrick Pierce in his studio, Lowell, MA
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faerie dancers
Michaelmas 2002
I
the work of art
to evoke the world
what love's imprint retains
conveys through time
not finished
living still in every
light-filled breath
and anxious sigh
awaiting recognition
to renew the wellsprings
of assent
to life
within
II
practice
tedium the language of earth
speaking grass in vast exhalations
spouting conifers & oaks
and all their greater lesser kin
november rain
copper study
swimmer
party alone
in silence and light
the way the shadows move
across the floor
beyond, the stars
bespeaking rhythms
of our days
no way to stop
the timeless flow
mountain crystal glints
refracts in blackest rock
where man is not
urban mesh his sign
a private language
seeking like the sea
its home
as though no one
had ever been on earth
yet giving back
to all without
its goal
conversation with the
infinite
imagined
returned to innocence
& brought present
to fruition
apple pear sculpture sonnet song
III
arrival
little knows the desert flower
of swamps or subways
giving all with no restraint
but vastness
in its bounty and its scale
warmth & chill
light & blasting fires
of day
night with frozen gleams
& blue-white shadows of the moon
winds fitful roaring from the north
or steady updrafts
where raptors soar
circling watchers wait
& tend the furnace
rather, reaching out and up
tender petals flare
stem & leaves still & steady
before the hammer of the sun
Strike your fill!
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winter solstice portal
Mourning surprised me
I did not know it was so broad
no edges
no where I could be
it was not
it was me mourning I now know
& it was not about her
not about her person
but about every thing
no edges
life shrank
so what if the vast Pacific batters
the Oregon shore
ditto Bach noting excluded
the garden turned to circuitry.
I could have understood if I
saw thoughts of her
missed her
but after the final rigor,
joy.
Life closed ranks. I regained a sister.
We think we know we mourn
for our selves
& no other,
when it settles though & grows within us
we do not see beyond it
near & far tomorrow then & now
more of all the same
If life were a tossing storm-dark sea
& in the middle immensity one struggled
easy enough to cease & sink;
but when instead it's opening the refrigerator,
looking out the window, sighing
as one awakes,
the opening closing doors of innumerable rooms
& mirrors of chambers
the old hotel seems too little like life.
Simplicity is the hardest thing
it is the final thing
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©2003 patrick pierce
email
www.patrickpierce.com
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