Brett Rutherford

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Brett Rutherford

The Town Is Still Asleep

The town is still asleep. The sky is pale with quickening light. Quenched, the long night of stars Swirls under the earth, but one, That silver planet, Venus, holds Over the ice-haired lawns A vernal promise: that love is not lost. Walk through the streets With birds and the clatter-clack Of streetlights as they change, A little tremble as the chill of night Dies in a sunburst from the trees, A vacant house whose owner dies, A fallen elm, an abscess in the line Of shops, a broken pane. I hold My book which is all I may carry away,

Brett Rutherford

Water Music I

You flow, you do not understand, The spring has eked you out of the earth. You fell from the storm, you barely coalesce Before the journey begins. A gust of wind from a cloud’s dead eye Blows you onto the clay of the north. A pond, where the spawn of a million frogs Grope in the steam of batrachian suns. At the end, a hesitant stream. Gentle, the grass barely parts in your path. By noon, you lay blind in the sun’s deep maw. You fear you are the plaything of the world, A god whose cruelty is your solitude. You flow, you do not understand, You cannot feel your strength. The folly of your winding way.

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Seeds from My Garden

Back for a holiday, I visit My home, that old cottage, Conduct the new tenant over the grounds, Say, “Here are the onions, back From last year, I planted these. A little ground fire in spring Will weed through the blackberries, In summer they’ll go to eight feet. The sod here is cleared, for last summer I took shovel, planted peas, lettuce, Carrot, red radish. The sour kind Of clover grows here on the lawn, Boon to salads. Wild flowers, Good for a week in the house.”

(By the wall, a garrulous stalk, Alien seed pods clumped in the sun, Six feet of rhubarb — even the kids Keep away.)

The tenant has gone, they tell me He ate no onions, left The berries for birds; He was the grocer’s kind, no use for gardens. They covered the lot with deep gravel, For cars.

Of April O the Delicate Sighs of Ferns

When snow, which veils the slumber of lakes Withdraws in mist and the speckled earth Is damp with leaves’ regenerative breath, I return, as I must, where the willows Rebelliously fly their green banners Against the perilous Canadian clouds.

When mist, which hails the warming of earth Raises its skirt over moss bordered streams I come with new love in the fold of my arm, Regard how white violets kiss the new sun.

For us the long winter was frozen endurance And dreaming of love through the trackless stars.

After the Storm

Dead night. The wood resounds with cries. Abandoned child, I think. I rush into the thicket, find a path. My eye expands into the moonless dark.

Wet from the rain-filled leaves upturned In my run, I find the source: On a mound where six markers neatly grew, A tree had crashed upon an infant’s grave.

Where My Love Waits

Where my love waits A hand has painted stars upon the vault Which never change, The trees have turned resplendent gold But no leaves fall, The moon hangs full in copper hues And never wanes, The night bears warming breezes But no dawn.

There must be winter, and a sleep Before we meet, Till love permits the world to breathe again.

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