ALL THESE EARTHY THINGS
(For Juan Gelman 1930-2014)

All these earthy things,
the small myrtle at the edge
of the ponds tall grass
as orange Mexican fruit falls
sponging Juan's sandal's feet
near the pomegranates,
a nomad poet in solitude
on his hammock
senses an allergic hay fever
by an Argentine raspberry stalk
where an exile from the Ukraine
by the hunched valley
locates carpenter bees
by the woodland sounds
while students search for turtles
taking a photo of their carapace
for their nature class
by scales and nets of fishermen
in a sky wall of early blue gauze
over the hospital ship's docking
with its odor of cold milk
in the early rain's horizon
by an open barnyard field
of slender curled tendrils
the poet collects shells
to hear echoes
of this gentleman's words
at his notebook's blank paper
near the ocean's grove
watching the hauling of lobsters
in undulant waves
near the docks of the shore
as this time is suddenly baptized
on mizzled rain drops
for an August greeting word
with so many crying gulls
at the noonday
next to one another
with hidden wings
of tiny birds curled on branches
who sing of Juan Gelman
in the eventide searching
for his missing daughter
by a harpoon found
from the ditch waters.