The moon was like a full cup tonight, too heavy, and sank in the mist soon after dark, leaving for light faint stars and the silver leaves of milkweed beside the road, gleaming before my car. Yet I like driving at night in summer and in Vermont: the brown road through the mist of mountain-dark, among farms so
In 2012, Sydney Lea was appointed state poet laureate of Vermont. Lea is the author of several poetry collections, including Young of the Year (Four Way Books, 2011); Ghost Pain (Sarabande Books, 2005); Pursuit of a Wound (University of Illinois Press, 2000); and To the Bone: New and Selected Poems (University of Illinois Press, 1996), among others.
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The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
Not for all the whiskey in heaven Not for all the flies in Vermont Not for all the tears in the basement Not for a million trips to Mars Not if you paid me in diamonds Not if you paid me in pearls Not if you gave me your pinky ring Not if you gave me your curls Not for all the fire in hell Not for all the blue