At the Edge inside the Fairgrounds

By Jane Penland Hoover

From my position here

the bench
far enough away,
to preserve my innocence,
I watch

the wheel rise to circle,
pause,
seats rocking back and forth,
some tinkling music

floats them up and up
before the drop

from their exalted view.

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Slow Goodbye

Slow Goodbye

We watched eighteen wheels
rolling up the long curved
rise, our drive, trees we planted,
watered, arching over, now
shadows falling thick,
dense air of sighs.

What remained of our possessions
moving toward retirement,
distant from this sheltered cove,
Weeping Willows dripping leaves,
wind-brushed grass where Holsteins
grazed, unfazed and unaware
of our goodbyes, whispered
to all of them,
the lone great heron,
beavers in their den,
turtles sunning on the shore
once ours,
uncluttered now
our kayaks sold.

Hands clasped, we pressed
for comfort from the future,
then released our grasp
to go.

(was titled Adieu)

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Possessed

So much I will never know
but this I do:

he is happier in our smaller world
happier with being left alone
to what he can

he did not lose his love
of working puzzles,
or his spatial skills
when stroke took his words
his fluid motion.

He did not lose his smiles
or his way of watching,
listening close enough
to hold the memory.

I did not lose his staying
power, though I often
let go my own, patience
wearing thin, filing sharp
my too loud words

What I know is
that we do not miss
so much what is gone
as we delight
in what we’ve come
to bear in the silence
of some inner realm.

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