When I say the word walk, or even spell it,
the dogs leap up with flailing tails.
Since they don’t understand the concept
of “later” or “soon,” I say it only
when I’m almost out the door.
Soon there will be no words for my slow
meanders in the woods in search of chanterelles,
while they run miles of scent trails,
nostrils flared, circling back to keep me in their ken.
No whistle even deaf old Nan can hear.
Just ash, scant handful of the world’s one body.
Soon—still in the future, for now.
—from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Tribute to Buddhist Poets
Chase Twichell: “I have a very low tolerance for decoration in poems. And some people love it; they want to read pages and pages of how the everglades look in a storm and so on and so forth. But I increasingly am of the school or the belief that we don’t have very much time and poems should do their work fast and get out.” (webpage)