November, Late in the Day

By John M. Ridland
So this is aging: the bare sun, skinned,
palely bucking the dark wind,
slides through the glass, crawls on the carpet,
climbs the footboard, lies crosswise on the blanket,
a spoiled dog waiting to be fed.

Not now, dear warmth. The kindling’s in the shed,
too far to fetch. Those two great logs that close
together to make fire, repose
apart, an old couple reminiscing
on conflagrations they’re now missing:
how every sunny Saturday afternoon,
Hey, diddle-diddle, the dish ran away with the spoon.

Not yet, dear spoon. Some hotter day, dear dish.
No tidbits now. Instead, let’s make a wish,
and boil fresh water for the small teapot
to keep it piping hot.

Source: Poetry (February 2011).

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This poem originally appeared in the February 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

February 2011

Biography

John Ridland has published a dozen books and chapbooks, including a verse translation of the Hungarian folk epic John the Valiant (Corvina Press, Budapest, 1999).

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Poems by John M. Ridland

Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Living, Growing Old

Poetic Terms Free Verse

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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