I've had Mark Strand on the brain this week, after reading a flash fiction piece he wrote (I mentioned the collection in my last post). And so, I went to find a poem for this week's entry. It wasn't easy to choose just one. Strand has collected just about every award and accolade a poet can, for good reason. You can read about him here.
The Prediction
by Mark Strand
That night the moon drifted over the pond,
turning the water to milk, and under
the boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
a young woman walked, and for an instant
the future came to her:
rain falling on her husband's grave, rain falling
on the lawns on her children, her own mouth
filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,
a man in her room writing a poem, the moon drifting into it,
a woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death,
thinking of him thinking of her, and the wind rising
and taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.
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