For a Distant Friend
by Delia Garigan
While I’m cracking eggs & heaping plates with food
Campers and vans line the roadway, in assembly with you.
A child’s teeth will be opening for the brush
When a fox slides out from the scrub, scenting you.
At the crest of the hill the road runs two ways down: Spring moves in
And Fall goes slow, unwinding again—still, they converge on you.
In that unsigned juncture, a split in the air:
The resolute grasses dip for you.
I return home ahead of nightfall, bent on less regret,
Tied down by a lifetime of yearning for you.
In the season of heavy doors, lacework branches wave
Against the day’s gray glow— Do I wait for you?
Roads gravel down off the island to sunburned ghost towns
Three days to the south. Campfire smoke against the water. But you
Could have mounted that chain of hills that now fade blue, off beyond
The rim of vision. On the shortest day again it’s you
in my dream, nearing meaning. When Sunday pancakes creep into weekday shapes
I hear the bracken snap; the creak of a rusted latch announces you.
You, who bloomed into heart-root tapping down, the reflection of a burning cup,
Who tore free the first burst of words— Who but you?
Judge’s comments
This poem moves me more with each reading. There’s an eloquence in its unpretentious language, and I’m haunted by the mystery at its heart: the speaker is “tied down by a lifetime of yearning for you.” An intriguing poem grounded in fresh, strong images.
—Kathleen McClung
Poet bio
Delia Garigan was raised on a small sheep farm in the Willamette Valley of western Oregon. Within this lifetime, she has manifested as a research scientist, zen monastic, teacher, tutor, parent, and writer. Her poems have appeared in Animal, Phantom Drift, Windfall, Black Mountain, and Willawaw Journal.