Danny Collins

The Twenty-second of june in my Thirty-first year

I

New doubts darken the green time dance

Not a hint cooler the air

Not a blush redder the leaves

Yet my steps brace against a snow pregnant wind

Is this the cost of a misspent spring?

To harvest and hoard

A foreshortened year

Gathering wheat into ever larger granaries?

What fall from summer fullness do I wish

The yellow surrender

Of the fruitful south

Or a northern flame to scorn the sudden chill?

II

I listen at dawn to the standing oak

To the leaf speech

To the wind song

To the wisdom of deep rooted winters

The wanton oak gives all in every season

Shade in the summer

Acorns in the fall

Sweet hymns of resurrection in the spring

Must I waste to the winds a prodigal summer

Heedless of industry

Of the squirrel’s contempt

Gathering only winter sleep and spring awakening?

III

I listen at noon to the river running

To the spring’s babble

To the rapid’s roar

To the slow erosion of uncertain banks.

The river’s end is not a word in time

No count of days constrict

No winding paths forsake

Her patient rush to find an end in ocean

Must I dissolve at last to ever be

Heedless of time

Of a true drawn course

Scorning all for the sea’s annihilation?

IV

I whisper at dusk to the wayward moon

The waxing and waning

The rootless and wandering

The searching and sought after, helpless moon

The moon is full in love’s reflected light

Swift in pursuit

Overtaken at last

He vanishes into the flame’s embrace

I shall be borne upon another’s course

Heedless of roots

Of a certain end

Content to chase the love that chases me

Danny Collins is a Christian, poet, and factory worker from the hills of Upstate New York.