2 poems

by Eric Pinder

after an unexpected snowfall in May

Apollo always dillydallies

at daybreak, blanketed

in snug penumbra,

too drowsy to heed

the urgent birdsong beseeching

a tardy sun, its warm timbre

almost forgotten, to unburden

boughs and branches hunched

beneath the white weight

of Demeter’s grief.

ajar

Alone

the body

is a jar inside

of which

nothing

exists

except

the hollow

gap

so sparsely filled

by the sole

thing trapped

by Pandora. 

Only that,

that diffuse hope

spread within

the jar as thin

as the suffocating

vapor on Mars —

only that frail gasp

of hope

prevents

collapse.

Eric Pinder is the author of If All the Animals Came Inside and other books about wilderness, wildlife, and weather. He teaches at a small college in the woods, a few miles down the road less traveled.