She, alone, stood
and, debating her own best good,
faced down the gaping abyss
of conscious solo loneliness.
She knew another decision would
be, by others, easily understood
if she, reconsidering, stepped back;
let herself be lead down a different track.
She could easily hike hand in hand
through life’s journey with a man
who had never truly got
the greater knowledge and light she sought.
But she turned her vision to a loftier view;
Spread forth her arms, lept out, and flew.
Oh, goldfinch!
Bright yellow cheer-bringer,
Flash of color
even in winter’s darkest days.
Too late I moved toward
The sliding glass door
Where you would have seen my shadow
And veered away.
Instead:
Thunk.
“Oh no nonono!”
I cry
and reach for you,
fallen,
as your glowing tail feathers
fan out wide
in a blaze of color,
then close as tight
as your dainty feet,
curled.
You are still warm
as I hold you,
tiny,
in the palm of my hand.
Tears well up
as I wait,
hoping.
But your eyes stay open,
fixed and dilated,
and even as I hold you,
admiring your bright gold feathers
and the tiny streaks of red on your breast
that I’ve never noticed before,
you grow cold in my hand.
I place you
tenderly,
at the base of the daffodils
which mimic your radiant glory,
but which,
like you,
are starting to fade away.
To some
it may seem strange,
having heard poets
and troubadours
wax nostalgic
about seeing starlight
reflected
in still
lake waters,
to have never seen
those lights,
those starry nights.
To have never known
what they spoke of,
to have never experienced
the beauty
of doubled diamonds,
some suspended above,
twins shimmering below,
clear and focused,
shining and waving.
Then,
one clear,
crisp
Wisconsin spring evening,
post eye surgery,
walking on a dock
which extended out
past trees
and lights,
and anything,
just he,
after a half a century,
alone,
suspended between
hundreds of glowing orbs,
times two,
at last seeing,
understanding,
recognizing
what others had sung about
and enthused over
and painted
and immortalized.
At last,
he saw.
Some might think it
strange,
and sad,
almost tragic.
“What he missed!”
they may exclaim.
But to him,
at last viewing,
finally comprehending
and feeling
and floating,
expanding his soul
and blending his
diamond tears
with the lake,
and with witnesses
before him,
and his gasp,
breath of adoration
and joy,
with creators like him,
the wait seemed
a small moment,
but so large
in its connective
worth.
Muir found himself in/
Yosemite. I need to/
find me up Mud Creek.
Hunting show hosts will/
always yell “beautiful ____*”/
after they’ve killed it.
*bird, buck, thing
Hunting show hosts will/
yell “beautiful ____*” after/
they’ve killed it. It was.
It’s odd folks think I/
don’t know how to whisper ‘cuz/
I dance hard. That’s why.
OR
People
may find it strange
that I,
one who dances hard
and sees much
and sings loud
and long
and deep
and lives life,
(Carpe Diem, Man!)
top down,
tunes up,
arms outstretched,
hands up,
with passion
and vigor
and tears
and laughter
and joy
and energy
and YES!
would
know
how
to
whisper.
That’s exactly why.
Not all amazing/
sunrises have to be red./
Thawing mists bring hope.
She would send me photos/
of tall SoCal tropical trees/
silhouetted in the red sunset;/
dancing in the warm sea breeze.
As if to entice me/
to visit and to stay./
To warm my feet in the sand/
and watch the palm trees sway.
I returned the photo favor/
of a frigid, streaming sunrise:/
A frosted cottonwood silhouetted/
against cold blue mountain skies.
T’was not to tempt her, nor to say I was coldly sad,/
but to remind her to be grateful for the warm beauty she had.
All things bear record./
Even the empty nails on/
museum walls speak.
?