IN POETRY: The Soul Longs for Home
by Jeanne Murray Walker
Jeanne Murray Walker is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently, Helping the Morning: New and Selected Poems (WordFarm Press). Her poetry and essays have appeared in several hundred journals, including Poetry, The Atlantic Monthly, The American Poetry Review, and Best American Poetry. She is the recipient of many fellowships as well as 16 nominations for The Pushcart Prize. She is Professor of English at the University of Delaware, where she heads the Creative Writing Concentration. She is currently serving as Mentor in the Seattle Pacific University low residency M.F.A. Program. jwalker@udel.edu
Jeanne Murray Walker is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently, Helping the Morning: New and Selected Poems (WordFarm Press). Her poetry and essays have appeared in several hundred journals, including Poetry, The Atlantic Monthly, The American Poetry Review, and Best American Poetry. She is the recipient of many fellowships as well as 16 nominations for The Pushcart Prize. She is Professor of English at the University of Delaware, where she heads the Creative Writing Concentration. She is currently serving as Mentor in the Seattle Pacific University low residency M.F.A. Program. jwalker@udel.edu
When what I have
right here
is what I want
why is it then
I miss it most?
When our old birch turns yellow in the gaunt
fall, I long for the way its leaves can cast
down their gold to make the dull grass glint,
as if the tree were mirrored by the ground.
The present’s all we know, but I’m not present
hard or true enough, maybe not kind
enough to grasp it.
I hear the house finch,
moving west, wing-thrash. Flash. Gone.
Even when I’m home, why can’t I quench
the city I take everywhere with me? Even
here in Philadelphia, as the white
moon slips down the skyline—I long for it.
right here
is what I want
why is it then
I miss it most?
When our old birch turns yellow in the gaunt
fall, I long for the way its leaves can cast
down their gold to make the dull grass glint,
as if the tree were mirrored by the ground.
The present’s all we know, but I’m not present
hard or true enough, maybe not kind
enough to grasp it.
I hear the house finch,
moving west, wing-thrash. Flash. Gone.
Even when I’m home, why can’t I quench
the city I take everywhere with me? Even
here in Philadelphia, as the white
moon slips down the skyline—I long for it.
