"In a world where Faith Hill is considered country, it's nice to have Alan Jackson around to remind us of just why we began listening to country in the first place."
After the leaves have fallen, the sky turns blue again,
Blue as a new translation of Longinus on the sublime.
We wink and work back from its edges.
We walk around
Under its sequence of metaphors,
Looking immaculately up for the overlooked.
Or looking not so immaculately down for the same thing.
If there’s nothing going on, there’s no reason to make it up.
Back here, for instance, next to the cankered limbs of the plum
We take a load off.
Hard frost on the grass blades and wild onion,
Invisibly intricate, so clear.
Pine needles in herringbone, dead lemon leaves, dead dirt.
The metaphysical world is meaningless today,
South wind retelling its autobiography
Through the white pines, somesuch and susurration, shhh, shhh . . .