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.