On the Culture of Máte
Right after Teresa and I
eat the tomatoes and eggs she fried
for breakfast,
we sit on our patio
and sip máte
while it rains.
I wear an elbow-worn sweater, and she
a frazzled nightgown. We sip our máte
and watch our yardgrass drink.
After the drought
this all-morning rain
refreshes us all.
The saplings Teresa planted
on the day of we moved-in together
enclose our yard in a haven of green
tinged yellow by the drought
and sun, which now, through the clouds
is reflective as last night’s moonring.
Dominic, our dog,
our tri-color collie,
naps inside on the livingroom rug.
Teresa is wrinkled
more than my memory of her,
and the hairs on my hands are whiter than blonde.
We pass the mate back and forth,
discuss the morning paper, banter,
talk about our plans for tomorrow.
The Muse in Different Forms
I see you walking through the wood
Though your image is ephemeral:
Yellow eyes and blood-blonde hair,
Linen robe and leather sandals dissolve
As I enter the treeline then solve as suns.
One day as my wife and I drove through
The Santa Ana gates, we saw a man
Wearing a tattered coat shimmering
Upon the road, and as we approached him
His unshaven face and he disappeared.
Why does this Black Dog always
Follow me when I go on my strolls,
My wood walks, my myth finding;
Why does he shadow away the finches
That silhouette their evergreen theater?
Once I sat in my matera in the heat
Of January while a luteous chimango
Wormed the grass outside my window;
And once I freed two caged owls
That flew up into a moonless sky.
Stephen Page holds an MFA from Bennington College and a BA from Columbia University. He is the author of a book of poems, The Timbre of Sand, and a chapbook, Still Dandelions. He likes traveling and spending time with his wife.
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| Stephen Page |
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Stephen Page (eudaimonia)
