Speaking the Old Language

Out of the soft morning,

mourning dove calls

sounding lost.  6-17-18

Chipmunk with grass in his mouth 

stops at my foot.

Kitty watches from the window. 7-17-18

Summer flows over the sitting poet,

the creeper-caught sun

rests below.  7-1-18

All my forever poems

echo catbird, redbird

speaking the old language.  7-2-18

Below the river,

far beyond the Glade,

mourning dove touches

the morning softness

with her own softness.  7-2-18

Summer moves across

planes of columbine—

leaf miners tunneling.  7-4-18

The long winter wait is for this—

straight morning sun pausing,

coming through pinwheels,

pausing long enough to notice,

to receive.  7-4-18

The first moment outside—

redbird is chirping.

And from the west, a response.  7-6-18

In the gray light

waiting to be pink,

today’s rose-of-sharon.  7-6-18

The teenage raccoon on the patio

is bigger than Stella. Between growls,

Stella puffs herself up.  7-6-18

Preening in the old crab apple,

fledgling cat bird

in the sun.  7-8-18

Mourning dove,

morning sun,

honeysuckle’s curved leaves.  7-8-18

In another month

the ringing in my ears will be gone,

replaced with crickets.  7-8-18