Annie Finch Poems

HLF, August 8,1918—August 22,1997

“Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
...

All the things we hide in water
hoping we won't see them go—
(forests growing under water
press against the ones we know) —
...

(The Celtic Halloween)
In the season leaves should love,
since it gives them leave to move
through the wind, towards the ground
...

He is sleeping, his fingers curled,
his belly pooled open, his legs gathered,
...

My wild indigo dusky wing
my mottled, broad-wing skipper,
a sleepy, dreamy dusty wing,
flying through my night.
...

Light and shadow
frame a window
that comes reaching
past a roof-edge
...

Rumbling a way up my dough's heavy throat to its head,
seeping the trailed, airborne daughters down into the core,
...

Morning's a new bird
stirring against me
out of a quiet nest,
coming to flight—
...

That hour-glass-backed,
orchard-legged,
heavy-headed will,
...

names, silence—quietest minutes
(building like rain or returning like seas)
...