Lee Robison
OLLY, OLLY IN IS FREE
Someone was twelve and now they’re thirteen
and out in the weeds with Shirley Irene
breathing in the dark, shoulder to shoulder,
two hiders in weeds, watching giggle and titter
of the whos who’ve sung the play ender,
wanting blown candles, ice cream, and slices of cake,
they chortle “Olly, Olly in is free,”
“Scardy cat, scardy cat, kiss her and run.”
Out in the weeds pretending not to be seen
holding hands, sweaty and clean,
holding hands with Shirley Irene
Does she want kisses? How is it done
with noses and chins in the way?
“Olly, olly in is free!” They tease
from their play. “Scardy cat,
scardy cat, kiss’er or run.”
Here is the end, here is the begin,
the all of play and the ever of yearn.
And snubbing “Olly, olly in is free” is as free
as becoming thirteen ever will be.
FOR ALL THE METAPHORS IN THEIR MOURNING
for Sherry Ruth Armstrong Henry (January 18, 1950-May 10, 2020)
Grass greens, sprouts from under
last summer’s wan stalks, ragged and winnowed.
Aspen and willow along the ditch, as always
this time of year, a yellow haze of leaf
against the last chill of waning winter.
Goose and swan have passed and will again,
north to south, south to north
spring and fall, fall and spring.
Some will sermonize these rhythms are metaphor
of an eternal round when you will rise immortal
in a Jesus Dawn, and perhaps they are. And yet
this morning,
you did not rise,
boil your coffee, sit at the kitchen window,
the mug warm and cooling in your hand,
the bitter taste of coffee and toast on your tongue,
the blackbird’s oak-n-leeder, the new calf’s bawl
in your ears, the redolence of May in your lungs.
The sun rises and will set today.
But, you did not also rise.
For all the metaphors in their mourning,
you did not rise—
except perhaps in the fiction
of my memory, mild—elusive. Ephemeral
as the odor of Bitter Root when
next month it revives and blooms.
This is how it is for as long as I am,
for as long as I may see the first green
of spring, hear blackbird chortle
her am from the yellow willow.
Lee Robison lives with his wife and cat in Montana a couple river valleys and mountain ranges west of the Paradise. He has written in several states and two centuries and published in all. His collection of poems entitled Have was published by David Robert Books in 2019. He is currently working on a second collection of poems a collection of short stories.