(no subject)

[Guest guest]

Darshan

 

 

With blazing red

eyes, my dove, perched high

on the wooden bookshelf, falls

 

asleep. His head droops

as an old man’s

in a wicker chair on a starless,

winter night-

one eye open

watches me.

 

Wings spread and beat

just above my head.

I disappear

into the nest

it took fifty years to build.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wings Over Water

 

 

 

1.

Leaves are greener near the water.

I walk down these hills

across the shadows of trees and rocks

to the creek that has none,

the earth above too hard

to stake myself from the wind.

I bend onto a mudbank

and imitate a warbler in the willows

translating the creek:

This is what

I always practiced

dying into.

 

 

2.

The rock I lean on is like a grudge

against water.

Though the ocean is a few miles downstream,

I don’t care

for its one season.

Hummingbirds would starve there.

I watch a jay stuff a cricket

down her fledgling,

the creek ripples on the underbellies

of alder leaves,

blossoms are opened

with ever being asked.

 

 

3.

Till dusk wings fly over

the water changing into wings

and back again.

In the last light

I am unable to tell

one from the other.

 

 

MA Visal