Yesterday, 03:23 AM
Reading this one again, I do admire the impulse behind the poem. I think a little Mary Oliver style digression into completely unearned authoritative philosophizing could be the missing piece here - "It was enough" is trying mightily to resonate strongly enough to fill in the gaps, but I think it's too heavy a burden for its ontological muscles to comfortably lift unassisted. Some scaffolding may be helpful to this end.
e.g. -
When I was a boy
I would lay on my back
in Kentucky fields of tall
gold broomsedge, hidden
from all the world beneath
a wide, unconscious sun.
Blanketed in layers of warm
and golden, I allowed myself
to watch the puffs of cloud
float by, to be taken by a hawk
as it goes soaring, red tail whistling
ownership over whatever moves
below. Now I am too grown
for anyone to call me "boy." Every
morning squares of cloth hold back
the swollen light. Alarms drag me
from sleep. I step into the shower
with my clothes on like a cloud.
e.g. -
When I was a boy
I would lay on my back
in Kentucky fields of tall
gold broomsedge, hidden
from all the world beneath
a wide, unconscious sun.
Blanketed in layers of warm
and golden, I allowed myself
to watch the puffs of cloud
float by, to be taken by a hawk
as it goes soaring, red tail whistling
ownership over whatever moves
below. Now I am too grown
for anyone to call me "boy." Every
morning squares of cloth hold back
the swollen light. Alarms drag me
from sleep. I step into the shower
with my clothes on like a cloud.