When I reached the hill’s summit
where the vanished farm had
turned meadow and I could see
the town and circling mountains
the voice whispered, Listen, it’s too late
for you. It’s too late
to be normal. It’s always been
too late. Be mad like Blake.
So I listened, and began
to hear the songs of moths,
the stars in choir so that
in winter I could wait for them, the stars only at night.
About the Poet
Stuart Bartow lives in the Taconics region of New York state. He chairs an environmental group, the Battenkill Conservancy, that works along the New York-Vermont border. His most recent poetry collections are Invisible Dictionary (haibun published by Red Moon Press) and Green Midnight, from Dos Madres Press.