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Horace, Odes 1.9 Vides ut alta stet.

Horace, Odes 1.9 Vides ut alta stet

(Sudbury, Massachusetts)

   So, James, you see that crusty scab atop
   The crown of Nobscott Hill? That's all that's left
      Of snowfall that, at Christmastime, we
         Thrilled to, and felt our nearness rising

   With every inch it rose. There's something else--
   You couldn't feel this way, James, but I did--
      For me the snowflakes fell as hours and
        Minutes; I felt, in each one, lapsing

   Grains of sand pinched in an hourglass waist.
   I'm telling you I feel you slipping. I
      Am slipping, I should say: these quicksand
        Decades [for you that's a lifetime) pull me

   Away from you, who pull me by the sleeve
   Towards the door that opens on March's thaw,
      And plead for me to throw a baseball
        In a soft arc for your bat to translate

   Into a sailing, whistling flash. You're right:
   What does it matter where such a brightness falls?
      Forget what I've been saying. Somewhere,
        Maybe not far from here, in pigtails,

   She catches spring's first sunlight on her cheek,
   The girl you'll marry fifteen years from now,
      Pretending not to flirt with boys who,
        Though she's exactly their age, feel younger.
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Author:Talbot, John
Publication:Southwest Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2009
Words:196
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