HAEMUS’ HEIGHTS
A river bridge in Minneapolis,
the ragged sky all cloaked in river mist.
The only man to make the Furies weep
plaintively sings; he can no longer sleep.
In verdant meadows high above Rhodope,
shades cling to cypresses with little hope.
A backward glance in Avernus’s valley
left us these songs and ruined Eurydice.
Twice dead is dead; though hyacinths still bloom,
the rooks will leave their shadows on the moon.
EARLY AUTUMN
A northern flicker
kicking up small clouds
of dust and needle duff
beneath the blue spruce
in the yard. Some sparrows
flit away from the lone
land-foraging woodpecker.
I’ve seen the bird before,
I’d like to say, but it’s
probably not the one
that drummed the soffit
of our roof so many
mornings in a row
a couple springs ago.
ANOTHER AUTUMN
That saw-whet owl in the boxwood
along the banks of Ecorse Creek.
Woodland sunflowers yellow above
the mud, their green leaves glistening
with water. October rain
has turned to October sun.
A culvert sings with run-off. I wonder
if the built world will reclaim me.
Cal Freeman is the author of the books Fight Songs, Poolside at the Dearborn Inn, and The Weather of Our Names. He lives in Dearborn, MI, and teaches at Oakland University.
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