Light
There
it splays
in winter
trees
for
just this
moment,
the
play among
the gray,
the bark
cleansed
by snow,
the branches
gouged
by frantic
squirrels,
across
from
the sloping
porch, the
railings
sunken
into the
bare wood,
each
thing
reflected
in the other,
throwing
shadows
like foil
into the
melting
street
where
finally
the light
sings and
washes
the
empty air
and rises
alone
for the
morning
doves
that
sit on the
wet slick
wires
threading
the sky
like music
lines
and
the shadows
creeping
in this
room.
Wind
The
birds have no wings.
The
skies in my sleep are
blank gray,
whirling
with an emptiness
that
fills my sheets.
A
fat robin stands on
a rose bush:
light,
brilliant, loud as a
violin,
unlike
the other birds, indistinguishable.
The
breeze brushes my face
as
it stirs the red petals
like paint.
The
robin’s chest furls
where I feel the wind
in
my hair as I wake.