Canary

Near Winter's End

by Jonathan Blake

From Canary Winter 2019-20

Jonathan makes his home in central Massachusetts along the Quaboag River.

In the fields
                                                          a thin fog lifts
From old snow
                                                          and the trees stand
In black coats
                                                          solemn, as if
Waiting
                                                          in the quiet,
After praising
                                                          the lonely dead,
For the singing
                                                          to begin
Again.

© Jonathan Blake

Ragged Angels

by Jonathan Blake

From Canary Winter 2020-21

Imagine the brightness of the winter
Light suddenly muted white-grey
The color of emptiness, the color
Of growing old. How some stand
In the face of a biting wind.

The men circle the barrel
Of flames in back of the feed store,
Shift the weight of their talk
From one weary leg to the next:
Some blow into their chapped hands;
Some cough blood into the blue
Cotton of kerchiefs; some tighten
The screw caps of small bottles
They slip into the frayed pockets
Of their heavy coats.

This is the America we have
Forgotten: Ragged angels of the land,
They wonder why they
Have been forsaken, heads bowed
To the wild dance of the flames
As night begins to darken the miles,
And the stars, the stars no longer
Burning like hope.

© Jonathan Blake