Member Poem

I hold in my hand whatever holds,
I spend half the night with Sharon Olds.
I hold in my hand, whatever holds-

A Kindle, a book, my mobile phone,
a tingle, a look, your fertile moan-
of a touch, nothing much, sterile tone-

now that is a sound I like to hold.
To keep & then seek, as I grow old.
But I'm young, eighteen, these fields of gold-

a jingle, a brook, dreams of daughter.
But why, befuddled, I lose my rhyme,
gathering, I turn, in my own time.

The sky is so kind to scatter gold-
this field, when healed, will yield to my hold.
We spend half the night- dreaming, I'm told,
I hold in my mind the things that hold.