Green Linden Press

Twilight

That morning, leafing through Aristotle,
I came upon: “For the things we have to learn
before we can do them, we learn by doing them.” 
I wondered if this was a reliable edition.

My wife Carol would have an opinion,
but she was asleep. I went outside
to rake leaves with Ralph from next door,
and mentioned the idea. “Yes,” said Ralph,

“that’s what I’ve always thought.”
“I didn’t realize you’d read Aristotle.”
“I haven’t, but that doesn’t mean
what he says isn’t what I feel in my soul.”

Maybe Ralph was in love again
and happy. Or at least content.  
He went back to his house for lunch. 
I watched a few leaves unfasten themselves

from the maples and descend to the lawn.
Later, Carol and I took our usual walk
through the park. We passed a bed
of roses. “Look at them,” Carol said,

“those narcissists—still showing off
as if it were summer, and they were new.”
Perhaps she was joking. “Maybe,”
I told her, “you could learn

to like them just by liking them.”
“Maybe,” she said, “I could do
something like that, as once or twice
I have, which you might recall.” 

Wherever she was going with this,
I didn’t want to ask. 
We followed the path down to the pond,
where the reflections were almost perfect.

“What was it,” Carol asked,  
“that Aristotle said about nature—
that in it there is something of … of what?” 
I knew the answer but wasn’t  

sure she’d be pleased if I told her. 
Nearby, a few children
were swinging on a jungle gym.
How cleverly they kept figuring out

the best ways not to fall.
We watched them for a while,
and I was aware I was turning
their game into a metaphor

about innocence and understanding.
I suspected Carol was also
running this past her intelligence,
which made me want to surprise

us both by saying something  
completely baffling but entirely
true, so Carol would stop and look
at me as if we still shared

a great secret. Those children
were heading home. The water seemed
to be listening. “The marvelous,”
I said, “is what Aristotle believed

is in nature.” “Yes,” Carol replied,
“that sounds like him. But did he also
think we have to learn
how to be happy?” “Do you?”  

“I asked you first.” Twilight
emerged from its grove of ash
and elm, reminding us we could leave
if we chose, or stay a little longer.

In the Earliest Days

death and chance
were brothers, and suffering
didn’t turn anyone

into a better person.
What happened happened.
The sun vanished

and returned.
For a while everybody  
was more afraid than usual.

Perhaps this was a sign.
But of what?
No one had yet learned how

to wonder about such things.
All of the world
was only itself. So the night

must have been magnificent
in its loneliness, and the dawn
a kind of rapture we can’t imagine.

Also by Lawrence Raab: "My Expedition," "Aubade"

Lawrence Raab is the author of nine books of poems, most recently Mistaking Each Other for Ghosts (Tupelo, 2015), which was longlisted for the National Book Award and named one of the Ten Best Poetry Books of 2015 by The New York Times, and The Life Beside This One (Tupelo 2017). A new collection, April at the Ruins, will appear from Tupelo in April 2022.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2021