Sunday, June 3, 2012
It comes to a full stop,
the morning. Catbird is
speaking his mind,
telling his stories. 5-5-12
A wide-winged vulture,
a flurry of redbird wings,
a silent heron overhead.
In between—air, me. 5-6-12
The jay grates the morning.
The moist air moves back in,
softens all. 5-8-12
Green and wrinkled with promise,
shoot up. 5-9-12
The air brings itself, clouds,
the thousand thoughts that touch—
a new breath blowing through the old. 5-10-12
Does anything last?
The white butterfly comes again this morning.
Her irregular wing beats
seem to get her through. 5-13-12
Today he doesn’t see me,
the red fox loping through the yard.
But I see him, his red smile
as wide as the morning. 5-13-12
That lovely sound—
rain falling down all the
different shapes of new leaves—
a netted waterfall. 5-14-12
In the night-soaked woods
a light breeze and then rain drops
fall as softly as unspoken words. 5-15-12
Between here and the far away there,
she stretched a line. She walks on it now
to a place she has never been, on a line
floating in air— this line, this line
of thought almost straight, straight enough.
It holds her feet, all of them. 5-19-12
Drenched, the weighted wood
holds up the continuous sky, the
breath between them liquid like light. 5-30-12