Ed Hack



Just up from sleep and pillow-peace. Outside
more wind in trees, gray air right on the cusp
of blue. Not yet, but soon. Brand new, untried,
these hours of life. I yawn, the sweet sleep-dust
still in my eyes, my shoulders too still feel
the downward pulling weight of dream. Outside,
the tree talks to itself, the stream’s black wheel
is rolling west, a pale blue sky presides.
White gold blinks on, blinks off. Green leaves ignite,
go dull and wait. That’s what trees do. They live
the long, long game, are patient as the night,
give shelter from the rain, do not forgive,
do not accuse, are creatures of the earth
and sun, their lives a deep and patient birth.


ED HACK wrote free verse for years, then, three years ago, feeling the need for the discipline of metered language and form, turned to the sonnet, to explore its precisions and passions. He has been published in Going Down Swinging, Hapax, Dunes Review, Forage Poetry, Poetry South, The Orchards Poetry Journal, NatureWriting, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Algebra of Owls, Autumn Sky Poetry.


Read more by Ed Hack:

Three poems in TreeHouse Arts
A poem in NatureWriting
A poem in Dunes Review