Archive of New Mexico Poetry – R.W. French

When, sometimes, I cannot sleep,
And darkness stands at every door,
Often I turn to centuries past
And those great poems beginning “When”:

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote.”

“When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes.”

“When I consider how my light is spent.”

Note the progression. The meaning is clear.

Yes, I know,
The earth is bright with springtime bloom. But what of that?

The seasons of the heart admit no other.

Sunlight came softly,
drifting like rain through the leaves.

A fish leaped;
I woke into the morning.

Ready to begin,
I knelt beside the lake

and gathered into my arms
the shining waters.

There is nothing to say.
Trapped in silence,

mute as a stone,
she sits in a stiff black chair

and stares at the wall
and the rows of books

that rise like giants
to frighten empty spaces.

She knew me
when I was a child.

She does not know me now.
I am lost in depths of dying time.

No one’s fault, that’s how it is.
It could be different but that’s how it is.

About the Poet
R.W. French writes a monthly column “Where We Live: Poetry of New Mexico” for New Mexico CultureNet.