Flute Stalks

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The poet came to visit

and showed the children

how to make

flutes and fifes from

pumpkin stalks.

 

A man who saw words and moods

move like weather systems.

Huge pillows of them amassing

over the country

placing water, heat

feelings that took on

the whole week

like rain or wind

or that cold

slapping at your skin

when you walk out at night.

 

The drone of those

strange stalk flutes

the shrieks of children

as they found

the sweet-spot in the sound,

like summer weather

and the evenings long

with the crescendo

of cockatoos and the

fugues of magpies

answering one to the other.

 

When a plucked pumpkin stalk

puckers and pops with its

own hollow weather.

 

And in the driveway

the figure of the poet

at sunset.

 

A man silhouetted

against his own shadow.

 

A man seeing things changing

slowly, like sounds.

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