I say the same thing / So think of me

Schuyler, James

I fill the window,

nothing in my arms.

Is it the green

that draws me out?

New buds on the elderberry,

on the old, brown wood

of last year. Think of it

as a beginning. I’ve opened

not all of my windows,

but some of them.

Is it the morning

of the poem?

I am like a secretary

in the garden,

moving leaves around

like old papers,

like Auden’s pale

papers. So think of me

as a nature poet

in New York City.

It has happened already.

Winter only melted,

everything the color

of paper for so long.

Colors are having

their way with me.

Coffee in a turquoise

cup. It’s blue, the sky

and that moth

so very white. Little

blue scilla popping up,

I didn’t plant them.

One man walks by

with a limp. I live

where all my neighbors

are aging quickly.

I can’t get over

how it all works together.

Reading a poem

someone wrote for me.

I say the same thing

over and over

like old men

buying birdseed

at the hardware store.

Every spring, it’s the same.

A clock I hear ticking,

while all the birds

are in red coats,

blue coats, yellow,

and velvety brown.

It’s the grey of the stone

at my feet. It’s the red chair.

It’s the tulips coming up

that I can’t quite care

about anymore.

It’s getting warmer.

It’s a day like any other.

[In conversation with Schuyler’s poem “February”]