Airy Nothing

The Greek Iliad/Odyssey/"No Man" poet Homer, Irish expatriate wordsmith James Joyce, lyrical tenor sax great Stan Getz, and Rock vocalist extraordinaire Graham Nash all were born on February 2nd... as was I. The contrast between those distinguished Masters of the Arts, on the one hand, and interlopers like original groundhog prognosticator Punxatawney Phil and me, on the other, is truly Absurd. But we try, the wee weatherman and I, as the years go speeding by.

Last February, darling Sandra surprised me with a full-size print of the Andrew Wyeth painting titled Groundhog's Day (reproduced above)--framed now and hanging nearby as I write. But the print also revived my on-going interest in the Wyeth family of painters; and it somehow collided with a poem fragment of mine from decades ago, and a familiar passage from Shakespeare, to compel this new poem (given visual support by others of Andy's works):

A Local Habitation

I name this place:
Home. This is the table...
would seat eight if there
were. And here is the chair--
purely a chair--while
over there, the chairs are
unseen, but chairs still.

Now the lace curtains
ripple out... and in...
blowing out and then

in, farther in, then out
across the window sill
again. Do you see where
it leads? The need remains,

always, to name some
tame place Home. The rebel
poem pretends to know
all that it may be about:
how she carried Home
in her eyes... her face.
And ends the poem, so.

* * *
What comes next? None can say...
Y'all come back soon, y'heah?