As an adolescent, when my bones ached,
Thanks to the lovely punishment of my disease,
I would often have to wait a shuddering
Minute for the muscles in my legs to unclench
Whenever I sat down or got into bed. Later,
In my early twenties, I visited the quiescent
Family farm of a couple of friends, near
Flathead Lake in Western Montana. They had
No books in the farmhouse, no television,
No record collection, and of course this was
Long before smartphones, social media,
Or anyone had even coined the phrase
“The World Wide Web.” There was one
Cheap plastic transistor radio in the kitchen
That picked up a few scratchy country stations.
That was it. When everyone but me left
For a weekend of backcountry hiking, I had
To wait a day for my thoughts to unclench.
Finally, there was the evening I sat on the porch
In a straight-back chair with my hands in my lap
And watched the complete progress of nightfall,
From long afternoon shadows through to sunset,
To the first evening star, to thousands of them.
Then nothing ached and I relaxed. I need
Another slow of release of agony. I need
To wait for a night full of stars, nothing
To read, to see, to hear, to think in the dark
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