The window skitters

and rasps as the jets

take off, circle, fake

a landing, then do it

again. The engine hum

is less and less

then more and more

so the return seems

as predictable

as  the bushes

and elm branches

and the jonquils that are

sprouting small bulges

of green promise,

of return and still again …

return. We learn

that some things

are predictable.

We learn to expect,

to plan, to grow eager

for what we think

is coming. We come

to believe all remains

the same  even while

the evolution we do not

believe in

hides something

that is very very slow.

Can I wait for a truth

all wrapped in secrets

within the very essence

        of slow?

 

 


Carol Hamilton

Carol Hamilton has recent publications in Paper Street, Cold Mountain Review, Common Ground, Calliope, Louisiana Review, U. S.1 Worksheet, Sandy River Review ,Turtle Island Quarterly, Tipton Poetry and others. She has published 17 books. A former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma, her work has been nominated seven times for a Pushcart Prize.