It's mid-summer and I dread the end
of it. Like losing a mother, soft hands
slipping into the earth. The Wind has been
so full. Another breath.
These are the days when the light fades
a cock's stride earlier, a beat before
I'm ready, the sun blinks out and only
the glow of remembering tints the clouds pink.
Why is this moment of grace so close to sorrow?
Why can't I stay in it? Instead I feel the leaving,
a glove pulled away, when I wanted a bit more.
“Mary Logue writes mysteries and memoir as well as poetry, always searching for thelessons in loss. And she offers to her readers (in a direct and eloquent style)what she has learned. A gifted storyteller, her attention is often focused onthe beauty abiding within ambiguity. In Settling, we are treated to herpoetic investigations of the world close to home—the relationships betweensister and sister, parent and child, lover and beloved, woman and nature, heartand mind.”—The Midwest Book Review
“The poet draws a sustaining strength from what remains behind in body and in mind, from the relationships that remain intact, flourishing and flowering in the blush of human interaction. If it is the destiny of all who survive to grow old, she instructs us, then it is our obligation to do so responsibly and respectably, appreciating rather than fearing, glowing rather than decaying.”