Last week I saw a boy walking home from school
by the side of a busy road, walking against traffic
like he must have been told. On his side of the road,
red flamey leaves hung onto maple trees, the sky
was bright October blue-for-boy. He looked
to be about thirteen, was looking all around,
bare-faced and grinny. His coat was thrown open,
his head thrown back and tossing from side to side,
from time to time his arms lifted and flourished
like a magic wand or a conductor’s wand and he was singing,
right out loud like no one was watching, singing
right out loud for all he was worth.
Or this—
Once I dreamed a beautiful white-haired
woman, speaking to a crowd under a tree.
She had a formula, she had a way
of writing books, books everyone would want
to read, to buy, so if you could learn to write
her way, soon enough you’d have
all the money you’d need. But I came late
to the meeting. By the time I reached
the edge of the crowd already she was
being hurried away. I ran after her, shouting,
so great was my need. She wouldn’t
stop for me, but she turned her head
and called back over her shoulder,
Just write me twenty or thirty
beautiful words.
As for the laying on of hands,
I know of a place here in the center
of town where if you stand
in the clear, palms up
and full of black oil sunflower seeds,
chickadees will come and light
and eat from your hand.
Next time you come,
I’ll take you there.