The trees in my yard have a clarity foregrounded
against the thinning fog. The winter grass looks
ready for spring. My heart’s discontent is a love
song. There is nothing I can do to change this scene,
this time, this longing in its blessings and curses.
That is what longing is – Jacob clinging to the angel,
the blessing, the wounding not letting go gives.
The poetry where everything fits – every step
a dance step, every stumble a fall.
The low growling harmony of love songs where
every moment is a honky-tonk, all the music blues.
My discontent a hesitant redemption, a promise
that only I can break. The fog is nearly gone.
-Byron Hoot
