Return to Salem

Rocks lie hard-packed on either side of
the green hummock of the driveway’s center.

They are close-nestled. Each in the midst of others,
cuddled in near sand and leaf-dust.

To take one away is the work of persistent fingers
with dirty nails that pry and loosen the edges of the stone

until it pulls free, leaving behind its perfect impression,
a unique dent in the driveway. Come again tomorrow.

The pocketed stone retains its shape: lines that match
those of the hole, perhaps some hole-dust still clinging.

The hole, though, won’t fit; it holds other things:
more dust, a pebble. The rock can’t be put back.

 

(Whilst resurrecting poetry, it seemed appropriate that this should follow yesterday’s poem.  “Salem” is a place I once called home.  © Stacy Nott, 2006)

 

2 thoughts on “Return to Salem

  1. I think a mark of a good poem is if it rolls off your eyes without the words really registering and still seems wonderful — before the words have registered. It’s true of Levertov and Hopkins, at least. Also this poem.

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