Winter Stars by Larry Levis

Author:Larry Levis [Levis, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780822991106
Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press

THE QUILT

“He had stopped believing in the goodness of the world.”

—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

I think it is all light at the end; I think it is air.

Those fields we drove past, turning to mud in April,

Those oaks with snow still roosting in them. Towns so small

Their entire economy suffered if a boy, late at night,

Stole the bar's only cue ball.

In one of them, you bought an old quilt, which, fraying,

Still seemed to hold the sun, especially in one

Bright corner, made from what they had available in yellow

In 1897. It reminded me of laughter, of you. And some woman

Whose faith in the goodness of the world was

Stubborn, sewed it in. “There now,” she might as well

Have said, as if in answer to the snow, which was

Merciless. “There now,” she seemed to say, to

Both of us. “Here's this patch of yellow. One field gone

Entirely into light. Good-bye…” We had become such artists

At saying good-bye; it made me wince to look at it.

Something at the edge of the mouth, something familiar

That makes the mouth turn down. An adjustment.

It made me wince to have to agree with her there, too,

To say the day itself, the fields, each thread

She had to sew in the poor light of 1897,

Were simply gifts. Because she must be dead by now, &

Anonymous, I think she had a birthmark on her cheek;

I think she disliked Woodrow Wilson & the war;

And if she outlived one dull husband, I think she

Still grew, out of spite & habit, flowers to give away.

If laughter is adult, an adjustment to loss,

I think she could laugh at the worst. When I think of you both,

I think of that one square of light in her quilt,

Of women, stubborn, believing in the goodness of the world.

How next year, driving past this place, which I have seen

For years, & steadily, through the worst weather, when

The black of the Amish buggies makes the snow seem whiter,

I won't even have to look up.

I will wince & agree with you both, & past the farms

Abandoned to moonlight, past one late fire burning beside

A field, the flame rising up against the night

To take its one solitary breath, even I

Will be a believer.

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