For Bill Holm, poet and essayist (1943-2009)
The former farm boy who rejoiced in Bach
and books, Haydn and Whitman and Thoreau,
as daylight faded, tried to slow the clock
by wintering for weeks in Mexico
and summering in Iceland, where the sun
shouldered the night aside. Yet its dim twin
advanced in lockstep. Vanishingly wan,
the moon still rang its changes, taking in
the measure of his days. He built on sand
(as writers do) his shrine to deathless art,
immoderate as his ancestral land,
its glacial moonscapes and volcanic heart.
L2 was "and books, Whitman and Haydn and Thoreau,"
L10 "(as writers do)" was "(like all of us)"; then reverted to original version; then back to "(as writers do)"
Last edited by Susan McLean; 11-12-2019 at 12:46 AM.