The Clock
\nThe clock on the parlor wall, stout as a mariner\u2019s clock,
\ndisperses the day. All night it tolls the half-hour
\nand the hour\u2019s number with resolute measure,
\napproaching the poles and crossing the equator
\nover fathoms of sleep. Warm
\nin the dark next to your breathing,
\nbelow the thousand favored stars, I feel
\nhorns of gray water heave
\nunderneath us, and the ship\u2019s pistons
\npound as the voyage continues over the limited sea.<\/p>\n
The News
\nAfter tending the fire, making coffee, and pouring milk
\nfor cats, I sit in a blue chair each morning,
\nreading obituaries in the Boston Globe
\nfor the mean age; today there is MANUFACTURER CONCORD 53,
\nEX-CONGRESSMAN SAUGUS 80\u2014and I read
\nthat Emily Farr is dead, after a long illness in Oregon.
\nOnce in an old house we talked for an hour, while a coal fire
\nbrightened in November twilight and wavered
\nour shadows high on the wall
\nuntil our eyes fixed on each other. Thirty years ago.<\/p>\n
The Pond
\nWe lie by the pond on a late August afternoon
\nas a breeze from low hills in the west stiffens water
\nand agitates birch leaves yellowing above us.
\nYou set down your book
\nand lift your eyes to white trunks tilting from shore.
\nA mink scuds through ferns; an acorn tumbles.
\nSoon we will turn our daily business.
\nYou do not know that I am watching, taking pleasure
\nin your breasts that rise and fall as you breathe.
\nThen I see mourners gathered by an open grave.<\/p>\n
The Day
\nLast night at suppertime I outlived my father, enduring
\nthe year, month, day, and hour
\nwhen he lay back on a hospital bed in the guestroom
\namong cylinders of oxygen\u2014mouth open, nostrils and lips
\nfixed unquivering, pale blue. Now I have wakened
\nmore mornings to frost whitening the grass,
\nread the newspaper more times, and stood more times,
\nmy hand on a doorknob without opening the door.
\nFather of my name, father of long fingers, I remember
\nyour dark hair, and your face almost unwrinkled. <\/p>\n
The Cup
\nFrom the Studebaker\u2019s backseat, on our Sunday drives,
\nI watched her earrings sway. then I walked uphill
\nbeside an old man carrying buckets
\nunder birches on an August day. Striding at noontime,
\nI looked at wheat and at river cities. In the crib
\nmy daughter sighed opening her eyes. I kissed the cheek
\nof my father dying. By the pond an acorn fell.
\nYou listening here, you reading these words as I write them,
\nI offer this cup to you: Though we drink
\nfrom this cup every day, we will never drink it dry.<\/p>\n
-Donald Hall<\/em><\/p>\n\n The Clock The clock on the parlor wall, stout as a mariner\u2019s clock, disperses the day. All night it tolls the half-hour and the hour\u2019s number with resolute measure, approaching the poles and crossing the equator over fathoms of sleep. Warm in the dark next to your breathing, below the thousand favored stars, I feel […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2341,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7265"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2341"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7265"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7265\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7266,"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7265\/revisions\/7266"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/csc-mcnair\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7265"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}