Notations on a Spring Day

A November morning: it’s late spring

in the southern hemisphere. Already I’ve walked

the length of the beach, and bodysurfed

the waves. I’m lying on my bed alone,

while a cello suite plays in the living room,

and a few lines from Translating Anna Swir

On An Island Of The Carribean swim laps

in my head—

And again I am submerged

In the murmuring Polish, in meditation.

Milosz: his New and Collected, lies face down

on my chest. The paper is warm, and I inhale

its scent in hope of inspiration. Not entirely

unexpected a cramping arrives in the region

of my heart. Maybe such an ache is necessary

when reading the work of an exile.

Out back in the avocado, a butcher bird

sings a nest robber’s melody, and a magpie

carols high in a spotted gum. Crusted with sea-

salt, the skin of my back welcomes the rough

weave of the white cotton bed spread.

The ceiling fan creaks in time.

Published in Broken Ground UWAP