The Rain
Will I find there nothing
nothing rakes the summer woods
no light, no rain, no rain spell mustering
the packed leaves, the sods
of softened leaves, the same
Nothing I shouldn’t speak of
nothing where, nothing of the cropped
exchange, the verdant usage, love
nothing hardly stooped
with the ferning grain
Nothing is so nothing nearly
ceded, the graduating scaffold
scaping of our tree
and they say you won’t grow cold
for the other’s fail-safe
Nothing, in the fields, no
nothing, of the briefness of that
turning under the plain
far-off thunder, that begs on
the smell of the rain
Twistedstalk
Along the ledges
the ribbed rock
root-work twining
up more or less
with a wren’s sound’s
spates and verges
the way we’ve come
over-woven
to be cleared
split from the trail’s
crop-offs—
things tugged and
wounded with their blades
flails and flagrances
that show now
under the rick-rack
perfect leaves
the berries’ blaze
Note: These poems first appeared as part of a selection in Chicago Review 66:01. Read more poems by Emily Wilson in the print issue, available for purchase on our website.