Page 24

Hornet and Pear
24/Wisconsin Academy Review/September 1986
We walk as far as the shattered tree
with its single pear. You name things for me
bold as Adam: foxtail millet, Spanish grass.
Nightfall, neverfail, catches us
without a stitch between us, as the birds circle home
to light. Your kiss cleats to my lip: and I notice
your woodsman's smell of creosote and raw furs.
Heart set, and three months' gone, I'll ignore
the symbols prodding at my ribs: that hornet
staggering away, too fat to fly, from the pear
gone leadbelly gray around its neat drill holes:
and the white fox skin nailed to the shed door.
                                 Margaret Benbow
Portraits of the Fathers
(in the Church at Koshkonong)
Because God had read the Old Testament
they were prodigal in their
severity, these old preachers-
bearded, prophetic Norwegians
who took sermons seriously
and craved sobriety like wine.
It was their nature to be stern,
they were northern men
for whom God was always winter.
Their eyes were harsh
as white-washed churches,
their voices rumbled like judgment.
They came to America
bearing what life had given,
believing it was their fate
to praise the gray stones,
to love the bitter sky
rejoicing in each denial-
Finding glory in their agony,
strength in the vengence of the Lord.
                 Lawrence Rungren