Taylor Graham Poems
Comments about Taylor Graham
Between a mossy outcrop
and a bedrock mortar.
I watch a neighbor’s wood-smoke rise
toward the contrail
of a transcontinental flight.
Two overwintered bluebirds
peck berries from the mistletoe of a dying oak
whose roots dig into frost-heave,
decomposing granite re-composing
tree and shadow.
Atop a boulder, a squirrel has eaten
half a mushroom-cap and left the rest.
Coyote scat is full of manzanita berries
and fur, fragments of bone: what’s
left of gray squirrel.
I imagine I could hear the earth turn
its worms through soil, or ...
Ten Hours At The Forge
Elihu Burritt’s journal, June 19,1838
And then, by lantern light you read
'Sixty lines Hebrew, thirty pages French, '
its phrases springing from the page as fluently
as the river Seine you’ve yet to see;
'ten pages Cuvier’s Theory; eight lines
Syriac' – and who besides yourself
in this township, or the state, to understand?