July, 18 2011
A poem for me, and for her:
Fire and Sunset the coupling cardinals, stream in tall weeds along the footing of dark, creeping ivy reaching with leaf tentacles. They dash with magnificent dragon reds, contemplating flight, one softer and more delicate than the other. I sit shaded by hat, protecting from the sun, my somewhere in time aging cells. I’m not very young, nor am I old in this era of humanity, lost in the sounds of the sky. I search trees for the great horned owl, checking her perch for remains. I’m surrounded by cries from the treetops, city sounds of rolling trucks, and the echo of a dog, lonesome for man. They, like me make their way, in the moment there is nothing and everything.
The bright male blazes, beak leading, as his dusty lover spreads her wings in departure, ushering him back to post. The deck is still save for the makings of wind, while I search my memory for the little girl with a dimpled smile. She poked her fingers in doodlebug holes, and listened through cracks in the doors. She hid under blankets with quick breaths, eyes squeezed tight, hoping for simplicity she could reason. To know her is to find answers never questioned, and the stillness of the clouds slowly heaving with air.
She’s whom I protect while guiding the voice speaking to my mother. It is she in a room playing silently that I hear stale tears. The hunter hasn’t returned for two days, sitting fluffed feathered in a hallow hole. The raptor’s eyes mask killer’s ears, as she waits for her prey, don’t judge her for what she knows. The young woodpecker is nearby, he’s brave enough for pines after drilling on rotting fences, and cedar-modern art shelters.
The groom and his bride haven’t returned, life is the same, and completely different. The branches bend under breeze, and dried vegetation hangs with sorrow for the loss of rain, until the brilliance of their color’s change the landscape. I’m feverish and glassy in the doorway of now, reaching for her tiny hand to pull me beyond the threshold. They’ll streak crimson, outstretched at dusk, to land upon their fortress, and the adolescent knocker will hush to preen, while the owl beckons night with a nostalgic knowing for those she warns.
When darkness settles, I’ll pry where she can’t hurt me, allowing the pain to touch, knowing only my goodness resides. The curled girl in a ball will stretch out, eyes opened brushing off the dirty remains. I’ll sway her gently against the warmth of my heart cradling her back to life.