South Fork Poetry: ‘Celebration’

Seeing, in April, hostas unfurl like arias,

and tulips, white cups inscribed with licks of flame,

gaze feverish, grown almost to my waist,

and the oaks raise new leaves for benediction,

I mourn for what does not come back: the movie theater —

reels spinning out vampire bats, last trains,

the arc of Chaplin’s cane, the hidden doorways —

struck down for a fast-food store; your rangy stride;

my shawl of hair; my mother’s grand piano.

My mother.

     How to make it new,

how to find the gain in it? Ask the sea

at sunrise how a million sparks

can fly over dead bones.

From Grace Schulman’s 2013 collection, “Without a Claim.” Ms. Schulman, who lives part time in Springs, will be awarded the Poetry Society of America’s Frost Medal for lifetime achievement on Wednesday at 7 p.m. at the National Arts Club in Manhattan.