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.
I watch the sunset’s/
solitary beam reach to/
heaven like prayer.
I asked her some tough/
questions. I hoped for answers./
She left, got yogurt.
He had the chance to/
meet and woo, but instead chose/
to create more verse.
Catching a howling,/
freezing Northwest wind can be/
painful, but worth it.
See purple martins flight and hear the poem on YouTube video here: https://youtu.be/2A54z-tlu7w
I got to walk with/
swallows today, but my phone/
camera didn’t work.
There were about 1-2 minutes when a couple of swallows were hovering in my “wind shadow”. I thought I was taking some amazing film of them, close up, so incredible it made me cry. As I went to download the video, I discovered … I hadn’t taken it after all. Sadness. BUT I have the memory, AND this YouTube video gives you some idea of what was happening! https://youtu.be/ulrpRRKz72I
In Wisconsin you/
can go to a fish fry or/
wait for your uncle.
The more beer
you drink,
the more genius
my art
becomes.
When you’re surrounded/
by nature, feeling the flow/
of life, sad happens.
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.