poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

Recorded for Poem-a-Day, November 27, 2017.
About this Poem 

“In writing this love poem, I was reflecting on a moment when my partner, Kristen, and I took a long walk on a rainy spring day in Connecticut, where we live in a rural area known as Cream Hill. I was thinking of capturing the sense of occupying the present with an eye to emptiness, and timelessness. In that sense the poem is a Daoist rendering of a moment where ideas of hope, fear, faith, and love are accepted all at once, taking nature as flora and fauna as well as what makes us human.”
Afaa Michael Weaver

The Silver Thread

The fern gathers where the water seldom goes
unless the storms swell this world of wise choices,
the loud trickle of clear tongues of the stream
licking the edges of rock, while up ahead a curve
hides tomorrow from our crystal ball, the thing
we are afraid to admit we have, the guarantee
we hide from faith. In the woods our dog is lost
from time to time, until suddenly we hear her paws
inside winter’s death becoming the yearly promise
of new undergrowth, her careless paws that beg
each day for the next bowl of treats, true faith
in what love yields. The rain stops not long after 
it threatens to soak us with cold and chills, the trees
open to the gradual break of blue inside the gray,
turning the clouds naked and white under the sun,
the stream disappears under a bridge made by men
so trucks can crawl back and forth over this road
of dirt with its one row of grass, where our tongues
make a silver thread finding its way past the fear.

Copyright © 2017 Afaa Michael Weaver. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 27, 2017.

Copyright © 2017 Afaa Michael Weaver. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 27, 2017.

Afaa Michael Weaver

Afaa Michael Weaver

Born in 1951, Afaa Michael Weaver is the author of several collections of poetry, including Spirit Boxing (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2017).

by this poet

poem
I was parading the Côte d'Azur,
hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes,
following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo
to the hill that overlooks the ville.
A woman fed me pâté in the afternoon,
calling from her stall to offer me more.
At breakfast I talked in French with an old man
about what he loved about
2
poem

If he hits the curve before you do, all is lost
is all I remember when the coach yelled out
to start, to kick it down the short straightaway

into the curve, the curve a devil’s handiwork,
with Worsenski ahead of me, two hundred sixty
pounds, one hundred pounds more than me,

and all I

poem

 

Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.

2