Village

The child arranges tiny blocks
Of painted wood—red barns, white homes—
Around a green he has imagined
Atop an antique linen chest,

Where cattle graze among the rocks
Below the lighthouse. The ocean foams
And falls; seagulls surf the wind,
A rug to east, a lamp to west.

We watch the islands fade in fog;
We hear sharp ticks of rain on glass.
We squint to see inside a space
That’s tiny as a pair of dice,

And glimpse inside a family, a dog,
A lamp and rug; and just like us
They peer into their own toy house,
Lit up and translucent as ice.

They have a song for those inside,
Whom we can’t see, and so they sing
Some lines we’ll never hear. Outside,
The tide rises, intent, listening.

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Ernest Hilbert

Ernest Hilbert is the author of four collections of poetry, Sixty Sonnets (2009), All of You on the Good Earth (2013), Caligulan (2015), winner of the Poets' Prize, and Last One Out (2019). His fifth book, Storm Swimmer, was selected by Rowan Ricardo Phillips as winner of the 2022 Vassar Miller Prize and will appear in 2023. He lives in Philadelphia where he works as a rare book dealer.

Also by Ernest Hilbert (see all)

• Village - March 2, 2023
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Author: Ernest Hilbert

Ernest Hilbert is the author of four collections of poetry, Sixty Sonnets (2009), All of You on the Good Earth (2013), Caligulan (2015), winner of the Poets' Prize, and Last One Out (2019). His fifth book, Storm Swimmer, was selected by Rowan Ricardo Phillips as winner of the 2022 Vassar Miller Prize and will appear in 2023. He lives in Philadelphia where he works as a rare book dealer. View all posts by Ernest Hilbert