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. . . v. to be faithful to / not swerve;
to preserve or maintain
We keep the hours, mark them on our walls,
wear them on our wrists, hoard them in the
chambers of our ticking hearts, faithful to
the cycles we’ve ordained for sun and moon.
I keep your memory in cabinets of papers,
on shelves of books, in drawings and photos,
while the dust you’ve left behind has settled
in a pillow that no longer keeps your head
beside mine, though I embrace it nightly.
Who keeps the tides?
~~~
. . . v. to tend, as in sheep or garden; to watch over, defend from danger, harm, or loss
n. British: pasture for grazing
I have seen sheep—wandering white puffs
glimmering in mountain pastures—though I
have never tended them. My mother kept a garden,
spoke to the dark soil with veined hands, raised
smiling pansies. Years ago, I tended vegetables,
worked to stir good topsoil into clay. Pole beans,
squash, and ripe tomatoes tutored me in rhythm.
I have watched over husbands, parents, children,
and dear friends, kept dogs and cats, and would defend
from any harm those whom I love. But what of dangers
that brook no defenses, losses that outrace the wind?
Our words, a flimsy hedge against their aim, may fail
to hold them in restraint, may crumble in our mouths.
Who tends us?
~~~
. . . n. a stronghold, castle; prison, jail; one who keeps or protects
From what memory do I pluck this noisy barnyard,
white fowls running amuck, pigs snorting in the mud,
and I, barefoot, shaking my apron free of dusty grain?
Mountains surround this keep; mated swans
drift in a moat behind stone walls
I wonder whom or what this keep enfolds.
That which bars the other keeps us in.
Who is the keeper of this castle?
~~~
. . . v. to restrain from divulging; to withhold
I never told you that after you fell ill, I often
woke in the night and turned to lightly touch
your back, confirming breath. Or that I entered
the child’s room, leaned over the crib, and
did the same, before I could sink into sleep.
What else would I keep back from those I love?
That when we wrap our arms around each other
in the dark, we hold light—hug the flickering
atoms that define our flesh? Or that our eyes
have descended from stars?
I cannot withhold these gifts.
And I will not conceal what I've prepared
for the feast of celebration.
When is the feast?
~~~
. . . v. to persist in a course of action
another dusk—
the robin’s even-song
joins mine
'I've become fascinated with "riffing" off of words that interest me, like in this poem, the word "keep," which has both verb and noun meanings. It's free verse, lyric poetry" and uses questions as part of the free verse, and ends with a haiku.'