Oct/Nov 2010 Poetry

New To Me

by Stephen Germic

New To Me

Beach grass, a swath of rough sand backing to
white pines, paper birch, and northern cedar.

To the east limestone cliffs reach two hundred
feet, to the west a slim river's carved estuary,

and just here hover some refused thoughts, like
black flies: the temptations of plain vanity;

dreams collecting too near the swimsuits of
young women; maybe my life as a kind of human

cowbird, raised by strangers (or was it my father's
life, or was it my mother's?); the march of

common sin through generations; the future
name of the dog I will own, train, feed, love,

and fail to outlive; the lost children (maybe a few even
my own—who can know?); and the season's drought.

Today I will learn the full name and all the tender habits of
one wild plant growing between shore and forest that is
new to me sending feral color into this too bright world.


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