Eric Raanan Fischman

It doesn’t have to happen in a day.
Slowly clouds disperse, the snow melts.
Tomorrow brings a sun you’ve never seen.
The Earth begs for feet to touch its dirt.

Slowly clouds disperse, the snow melts
into your skin. A sun goes by, a moon.
The Earth turns its dirt under your feet.
The grief settles like a soft, wet haze.

The sun warms your skin for the moon’s kiss.
You shed a broken year, then five, then ten.
The grief evaporates like morning fog,
leaving its sheen of dew. Now you can see

the road in front of you, twenty years, fifty.
Tomorrow, with a sun you couldn’t know,
ignites a field of dew. Now you can see.
It doesn’t have to happen in a day.

***

after Kenneth Patchen

What a beautiful night! The breeze’s
long, gentle fingers and the salted sky!
Look, the moon’s eye is almost open!
The clouds are whales in a wide sea!
The earth is made of stars, but I am
made of earth! The quiet is crisp!
What a delicious smell, the pheromones
of flowers! What a generous song,
the evening’s blue harp! I am alive,
can’t you tell? My body has mapped
44 years! My feet have left 100,000,000
prints! Yet each step is still new, new, new!

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