Bruce Bond

(1954 / United States)

The Ghost Of Weather - Poem by Bruce Bond

My father takes smaller steps
in his eighties, his body leaning
slightly forward as if against
a continuous wind. He turns
and the wind turns with him,
the impoverished rumor of it
always in his face, blearing
his eyes, bothering his ears.

There's no way around it,
this ghost of weather thrown
out of the world, rushing
through the gape of doors,
so much farther than they were,
over the still flowers of curtains
and chairs, through the window
sealed like an anxious letter,

so that floors expand, the way
years between the stars expand,
taking on the dimensions
he remembers as a child.
It's as if all things, retreating
from each other, return
to a nameless place, light
as paper boats, as prayers.

Words too have a way of scattering
in the mind, of coming loose,
burning in the night's great sea of ink.
Look, there, where the jaws
of the book open to yawn
or swallow, to take him in.
Look, as he dips his sleepy head
with only the wind to catch it.

Comments about The Ghost Of Weather by Bruce Bond

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Saturday, July 5, 2014

Poem Edited: Saturday, July 5, 2014

[Report Error]