Naps as if immortal,
blond dog under ash tree,
last day of summer.
Opens her eyes:
Closes her eyes.
So might the Buddha,
under the golden fig,
sit quiet as a lotus.
Train Delayed by Lingering Fall
In the distance nothing I can name
blooms as white and horizontal as low-lying clouds.
Up close thistles appear to extend Indian summer.
I haven’t heard from you
but the undersides of poplar leaves are silver
and unconcerned. They know what’s coming.
I raise my eyes to the actual
low-lying clouds in the partial blue sky.
They gather as we move north:
some are gray smoke, one a great black swan.
The water we cross is immobile.
The train will arrive, though we stall on a siding.
Yellow loosestrife leans into the next station,
but the train doesn’t stop there anymore.
Suddenly, it snows. And here we are.
Kathleen Kirk is the author of four chapbooks: Selected Roles, a set of theatre and persona poems (Moon Journal Press, 2006); Broken Sonnets (Finishing Line Press, 2009); Living on the Earth (Finishing Line Press, New Women’s Voices Series #74, 2010), and Nocturnes, forthcoming from Hyacinth Girl Press this winter. Her work appears in a variety of print and online journals, including Greensboro Review, Leveler, and Soundzine. She is the poetry editor for Escape Into Life.