Moods
I twirl high, bright as a ceili sometimes
then slink, a matted dog, down the
path to a paupers’ field, the pitted road
that ends among wide flat stones. Morning leads
me back to a meadow, singing through
wildflowers. Then—why?—
something tilts, a dark
burr of fear, a black stalk replaces
the blossom in my hand.
Sometimes
the changes blow hour by hour: blaze, darkness
drench, drought, St. Elmo’s fire. What is
this curse I walk with, and what is your
patience to walk with me through it, matchless friend?
Note: This poem is a golden shovel, from a lyric in Bruce Cockburn’s song “Pacing the Cage: “Sometimes the road leads through dark places. Sometimes the darkness is your friend.”
© Naomi Thiers
Naomi Thiers is author of four poetry collections: Only The Raw Hands Are Heaven (WWPH), In Yolo County, She Was a Cathedral (Finishing Line Press), and Made of Air (Kelsay Books). Her poems, book reviews, and essays have been published in Virginia Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Colorado Review, Grist, Sojourners, and many other magazines and anthologies. She works as an editor and lives on the banks of Four Mile Run in Arlington, Virginia.
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