Hummingbird mama
abandons her nonviable eggs —
but keeps checking back
a few more times, just to be sure.
An arm falls from a sickly saguaro
and breaks open on the ground
like a prickly green eggshell —
after decades of desert still-life
a few seconds of death-motion.
But the night breeze is so beautiful
those breezes are — so beautiful
it’s hard not to get swept away.
Damnit! I binged
again II day
IV life was hard
and so I
VIII my stress away.
O why do I so of X gorge?
Since turning XL
I’ve been extra large.
Owls are hunters
Humans are mechanical separators —
separating by metal machines
meat from bones
life from death
fat from essence —
but in Nature, where Man used to come from
a long time ago — remember it? —
none of those things is separable.
BRAIN from SENSE
cracks in poetry
are not ruins
but gaps to let
meaning breathe
dried crackling leaves
though dead
are never quite still
a shrug, a hug
touchdown, letdown
waving, curling, sprouting
disco, vogue; praise, prayer
bird-pecked, green-specked
skeletonized, or multiplied
flower and fruity fingered
flipped, frail, or fallen off
perfected, nested, crested
guilt, grief, regret
cut deeper than
the dimensions
of the soul itself
“I’ve been feeling a little blue — just a pale, elusive azure. It isn’t serious enough for anything darker.”
—L. M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island, 1915
Standing in a silent still-dark February morning
Cool dewy grass grazes half-bare sandaled feet
Lo! Saturn arrives as Jupiter saddles Sagittarius
Mars burns red near the glowing crescent moon
Serpens slithers against a vaporous galaxy border
Antares winks green and gold, crimson and rust
As Scorpius swings its tail at the southern horizon
Libra starboard and upward of the crowded scene
Balancing askew over the poor impaled lone wolf
Ophiuchus a bystander in the busy celestial show
minutes bloom
hours flower
seconds vine
through the hands
of time —
days hustle
weeks speed
decades scatter
in confetti’d years
If your armor against the world is laziness and excuses, you’re not protecting yourself from battle and injury — you’ve trapped yourself inside with them.
i think my body
is afraid of heights
because my mind
is already always
too dangerously
close to the edge
Morning golden hour is the warm glow of the day’s potential.
Evening golden hour is nature’s afterglow to a day well spent.