Wide as the Summer Dusk A blur of worlds at elevations where heaven starts, indistinguishing space, clouds, rain and the very tops, land and tree, all in this blue air. Places with views of the weather clear the deck of distraction; like the false security of radar, seeing- is-confirming, looking for probabilities where no certainties survive the winter. Steering wheel wide as a summer dusk, the farther back I stand the more the circles merge and all direction erased. As the sun rises it sets somewhere in a tandem dance. Bells chime as the curtain comes down the gap and across lesser hills to where I am, flummoxed into believing that change is almost always good.
Philosophy When the air stops there’s nothing to surf. We wait frozen almost lifelike. How the still cloud drapes us in wet, but the creeks— the rivers— don’t flow. What was once the ‘quarantine spring’ became summer; now forbearance has become philosophy.
L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in Rattle, The Reader, The Istanbul Review, Snow Jewel, The Honest Ulsterman, hundreds of others, and is the author of two full collections and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019), and his latest full collection, Floodlit (Beakful, 2019).