Study

Unseasonable January's
casual revelations — tops
of pine trees limned against a vellum

overcast — redbud saplings sprung up
unremarked, till now, along
the back yard fence lines . . . Reinstalled

beneath the eaves, I'm listening to
the self-delighted shrieks of our fourteen-
month-old daughter, Sophia, ring

through the floorboards over my former study.
I'm not making much headway —
the hour's intentions, intonations,

syllables like insect tracks,
dissolving as soon as I set them down —
but I don't care. I'm happy here,

lord of the loft, eye-level with
the broken crown of our pecan tree,
for instance — swamped where it stands in its sheath

of vines — and the golden swarm of gnats
or of mayflies, hovering above
the pale, two-tone japonica

below . . . Such spells hang on for days
sometimes: the atmosphere milk-warm,
our yard unconscious still, except

for this gnat-cloud — swirl of dust — which, hardly
even visible itself,
makes fragrance visible to me,

each scent-drunk spark
of psyche fleeting,
minute, meaningless, but free.

Michael White
Re-entry
2005 Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry
Paul Mariani, judge
University of North Texas Press

Copyright © 2006 Michael White.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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