It is calving season
on the glacial field,
with groaning, writhing,
and violent births.
How massive, spectacular, and horrible.
when landscapes are altered
by newborn weight,
fault lines, failed lines,
sons and daughters
of the living God,
on the glacial field.
How massive, spectacular, and horrible
I have slept too long,
and my eyes
will not focus.
I am not myself,
and I will,
for a while. No doubt.
shallow dreams after dawn
steal the next.
I could easily
return to my bed,
performed by the familiar
who act not as I know them,
who will leave me quite cranky,
for a while.
steal the next.
where we are and do not seem,
I will be buried
in the rich clay
of the goodliest land,
to have paused on this spot
during my wanderlust,
my journeys away
from now empty homesteads
to rest under
a Carolina blue sky
that I may touch
but never own.
a heavy debt
and shall pay
for my stumbling good fortune
upon the goodliest of lands.
To the leaves that never drop from their trees
during blustery winters,
on the brink of faded beige,
does a tattered remnant
as a child,
I measured the circumference
of a dead baby’s head, which was also
a knot on the trunk of a large live oak,
which was also tombstone and grave
to a stillborn boy.
How gently the tree seemed to cradle the infant,
absorbing his lifelessness into her massive being,
gestating the once dead until his full term.
refusal to release
With a tight grip of justice,
Mother Oak holds firm.
The result, a gruesome sight,
severed wings from gentle beings who toured the street lamps
all last evening.
I saw it all,
sturdy boughs on fir trees stressed
by weightless ephemera,
that fell off, attempted balance,
I saw it all
through the window, throughout the afternoon,
eager beaks and full red bellies
suddenly present, then quickly away in search of more, more, more,
leaving behind the accusations of eye spots on sculpted chiffon,
the color of key-lime pie.
I was blown away by a great wind that came before a big storm
that was caused by a cold front that quit Canada, just like that.
And while high in the sky, I thought, “This might be okay,
somersaulting with leaves and blouses off the clothes line, not quite dry.”
On the other hand, dropping from the sky scared the bejesus outta me,
and I looked for a cloud with a landing strip, when I remembered my feet
were already planted deep in the ground for the next great wind,
caused by a cold front that will not quit me for anything.
A wall of ice, really, moving fast behind me,
making a small person like me trip-up, and go loop de loop de loop.
I would much rather fly high in the sky with Peter Pan,
take me some pirates as prisoners
before landing in Never Never Land
on just one toe, like the other lost boys,
Without cold at my back, and no tumbling with wet clothes,
just play and make-believe in another land.