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Two poems by John Gallagher
Reconnaissance and First Signs
- Reconnaissance
- The sun’s rays against this pile of oak awaken
- A world. We’ve fenced it off with chicken wire
- To deter them, our local thieves, who take in
- Every detail. We never see but hear
- Them on patrol. Predictable as the fall
- Of leaves, that scratch of tires and metallic skip
- Of bike chains in the dark. Sometimes they steal
- A rake forgotten in the yard, or slip
- Away with packages from the porch.
- Begrudgingly we allow them cans and bottles
- From the recycling bin. In summer they search
- The garden for its unpicked vegetables.
- Hunger drives us all. Our wood is warmth to us
- And them as well. And so, we guard these logs
- As best we can, while they await that generous
- Hour opportunity provides: our dogs
- Asleep, the floodlight out, and heavy winds
- To hide the clamorous work of plunder.
- Nothing missing this morning. I rub my hands
- Against the cold, then circle back and wonder.
- First Signs
- (May 1, 2020)
- It’s time again to pull the weeds and train
- The vines, to plant new seeds and watch for rain.
- It’s past time. Winter deaths withered early spring
- And have weakened my resolve. Yet, still I cling
- To last year’s certainties now proven false.
- I knew winter would come and that the pulse
- Of rufous wings and Robin songs would cease.
- I understood a stillness must increase
- In the evening shade that would soon entice the pears
- To drop and settle beside the garden shears.
- I thought I had already encountered it before.
- The eager, even anxious, morning hour,
- When frost no longer holds past dark, had been
- For me that first desire. I’d let the screen
- Door slam behind me as I ran outside
- To taste the changing air, inspect the shed,
- And start to sort the mess that winter had left.
- This year is not familiar. We are bereft
- Of rhythm in its return. Absence remains
- Palpable, like the unhealthy film that stains
- The half-emptied ditch along my neighboring road.
- We wear masks everywhere we go and load
- Our cars with toilet paper, bags of beans,
- And rice.
- This is no usual spring, but rains
- Will come. I think the rains will come.
- At least, I pray they will, and prayer’s a kind of trust.
John Gallagher
John Gallagher holds a B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of Dallas. He and his family live in the Northwest.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Two poems by John Gallagher
Reconnaissance and First Signs
Two poems by John Gallagher
Reconnaissance and First Signs
- Reconnaissance
- The sun’s rays against this pile of oak awaken
- A world. We’ve fenced it off with chicken wire
- To deter them, our local thieves, who take in
- Every detail. We never see but hear
- Them on patrol. Predictable as the fall
- Of leaves, that scratch of tires and metallic skip
- Of bike chains in the dark. Sometimes they steal
- A rake forgotten in the yard, or slip
- Away with packages from the porch.
- Begrudgingly we allow them cans and bottles
- From the recycling bin. In summer they search
- The garden for its unpicked vegetables.
- Hunger drives us all. Our wood is warmth to us
- And them as well. And so, we guard these logs
- As best we can, while they await that generous
- Hour opportunity provides: our dogs
- Asleep, the floodlight out, and heavy winds
- To hide the clamorous work of plunder.
- Nothing missing this morning. I rub my hands
- Against the cold, then circle back and wonder.
- First Signs
- (May 1, 2020)
- It’s time again to pull the weeds and train
- The vines, to plant new seeds and watch for rain.
- It’s past time. Winter deaths withered early spring
- And have weakened my resolve. Yet, still I cling
- To last year’s certainties now proven false.
- I knew winter would come and that the pulse
- Of rufous wings and Robin songs would cease.
- I understood a stillness must increase
- In the evening shade that would soon entice the pears
- To drop and settle beside the garden shears.
- I thought I had already encountered it before.
- The eager, even anxious, morning hour,
- When frost no longer holds past dark, had been
- For me that first desire. I’d let the screen
- Door slam behind me as I ran outside
- To taste the changing air, inspect the shed,
- And start to sort the mess that winter had left.
- This year is not familiar. We are bereft
- Of rhythm in its return. Absence remains
- Palpable, like the unhealthy film that stains
- The half-emptied ditch along my neighboring road.
- We wear masks everywhere we go and load
- Our cars with toilet paper, bags of beans,
- And rice.
- This is no usual spring, but rains
- Will come. I think the rains will come.
- At least, I pray they will, and prayer’s a kind of trust.
John Gallagher
John Gallagher holds a B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of Dallas. He and his family live in the Northwest.
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