A busy morning. Garbage trucks that crash
and squeal, whose air brakes whine and then release.
Unoiled and coarse, they roust us from the past
we dream or from oblivion’s dark peace.
The sky’s pale blue and scrubbed. The wind has both
hands in the trees whose leaves are silver-gold
as if there’s ice in air, and shakes, then flows
away, a wild spirit unconsoled.
In the background is the traffic’s roar,
a something vague at first, machine perhaps,
then maybe like the ocean slapping shore,
or punished souls whose panicked rush must last
for all of time for love their bodies craved.
The world is acid-etched, the air amazed.
Ed Hack was sixteen when he wrote his first poem looking out his sister’s window at a Willow tree and sky. They were enough, the tree, the sky, for an alchemical rush of words to start to give birth to something that was urgent to be born. He wrote free-verse for many years, was published here and there, then, wanting the discipline of form, he turned to the sonnet to learn its precisions and passions.