Easter at the Willow Brook Dairy

Please descend with me, you sentimentalists
and pilgrims, through our temperate grange smelling
of the vegetation, with the gravid
mare turned out among the strewing herbs,
which have their own names in French, and with our wedge
of day before us. There are so very many
different graduations of vitality
in life that logically it’s hard to say
where death exists. The risen Christ, we’re told,
appeared unto the Magdalene while looking
like a gardener. That’s hard to credit, but
I’m pleased to be here, hat in hand, among
the opiate philosophies, and seeing
how the windmill spins, the lister rusts
in Elam’s primeval barn.

The banty rooster
whoops on top the springhouse roof. The door’s
unlatched, and inside: tins of whole Willow
Brook milk, the best clabber, and butterfat
ripe cream, cheeses festering in
their cloth sacks. Blueflies hum among
our pulchritudes: the beautiful peace, cats
sneezing in the quince trees, humid
red globes of tomatoes. I could go on.
But even thus my fear is awful. Look here,
a fence post has taken root, and troubles
me. A catch of bees is clinging to it,
the sweet brood sneaking off in the
direction of the basswoods. Amen. I am
a shaken realist, and feeling nearly
criminal to be seduced away
from what I’m called to see.

Author: Brad Crenshaw

I am a poet and literary critic. I have written two books of poetry: 'Genealogies' was published in April 2016. My first book of poetry is titled 'My Gargantuan Desire'. I also have two chapbooks: 'Propagandas', and 'Limits of Resurrection'. I am working on a manuscript titled 'Medical Life’, which is book of creative non-fiction. I have worked as a neuropsychologist for many years in a New England tertiary care medical center, and in the Massachusetts Department of Developmental Services. 'Medical Life' reflects my encounters with people who have had neurological insults of various sorts, and the problems that result. When I am not writing, or working, I'll be out in my ocean kayak in either the Pacific or Atlantic Oceans. The unconstructed world. View all posts by Brad Crenshaw