Odder Still

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As odd as it is that the moon comes up
behind the inelegant tree behind our house
over the dark mountain —grey-white
and silver-dollar like, a night eye
weeping silver— it’s odder still to think
of a moon that never was
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As odd as spring seems, fresh and crisp
as the salad before the salmon fillet,
as odd as the salmon fillet itself seems,
pink upon my plate— it’s odder still
to think, no salmon, and spring
never was
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As odd as breathing this night air
cucumber cool into my lungs
with a vague taste of pine and
something else, maybe a wood fire
ablaze in a stove down the valley; as odd
as pine and burning wood seems, it’s
odder still to think otherwise, now,
standing on two feet and good legs
and all the electricity I need to be
sparking, snapping, seeing—
as odd as all this seems,
otherwise seems odder still
to me

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Jim Culleny; June 2, 2009

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