On a spring evening in between the black fly season Hear Wes McNair read this poem.<\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
\nand the first mosquitoes, as the red stems lift
\ntheir broad leaves like scores of tilted umbrellas,
\nI call them on the telephone of my mind and drive
\nbagfuls of rhubarb down through the town, past
\nthe white revenants of the Grange Hall and the closed
\nlibrary, past the house lots and the treeless modulars
\nwhere they have no use for rhubarb, turning at last into
\na wide driveway while little Herman, alive as anyone,
\ncomes out of his old farmhouse with his chesty walk
\nto take two bags inside to Faye, enough for a whole
\nyear of pies and red jello cobblers, then drive the back
\nway along the river, by the oaks and sumacs gathering
\nthe shadows of twilight, to swing in beside the dead
\nschool bus of True’s cowless farm and see old Billy,
\nbefore his legs gave out, who loved rhubarb almost
\nas much as his long-lost mother, take the biggest bag
\nof it into his arms and carry it up the steps of his porch,
\nleaning on the rail to wave goodbye. Goodbye to Billy,
\ngoodbye to little Herman, goodbye to the Gagnons,
\nwho laugh in the deepening dusk about eating sticks
\nof rhubarb right from the patch as kids, goodbye
\nto my old neighbor Ethlyn in the house on the corner,
\nempty for two years, who all the same calls out
\nHello<\/em> from somewhere inside when I knock, Hello<\/em>,
\nI’m here<\/em>, and suddenly she is here next to me behind
\nthe screen, smiling because I’ve remembered her again
\non this spring evening with fresh rhubarb, which
\nshe holds up to her face, breathing it in with a long
\nbreath, before she turns and goes back into the dark.\n\n\t\t