Desire-line​

Sun spokes stretch overhead    behind    and in the sky of near future    this sweet
August afternoon as we drive through Indiana. Crows soar over fields in clumps,
orange spangles swell & pop around sun, hum of car satisfies. We know dark
approaches, but slowly, like deer wading in the blue twilight, their ocean
of grass & lichen & mushroom flowing under a sturgeon moon,
then ebbing under the same dawn that ferries fox back to den.
We know that shadows will inundate fields with a briny
azure coiling in breeze’s breath, the rustling froth
a herald of the cold-to-come & welcome in the
summer’s end swelter. For now, we ride this
sizzling caw-laden brilliant hour—
its crooning miles    its fields
at low tide    the road
a desire-line of wish
& where.

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Keeper of Time​

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She resides in January’s hard stars

in the amphora-buds of poppies

in the legs of Jesus lizards

as they walk on swamps

 

She looks out from the black eyes

of barred owl & harlequin toad

the honeyed irises of tarsiers

the pink-peaked stalks

of mantis shrimp

 

She perches on thunder’s cracked edge

in the center of chocolate cherry

sunflowers’ ruby ray-petals

amid the pleats of a fairy

armadillo’s shell

 

She roosts in hibiscus with swooping tongues

in the coral pulp of pink lady apples

in the lightning of stellar nurseries

their struggling gases & dust

purling in the blackness

pearling the pitch

 

She sleeps in skeleton flowers with lollipop

naves of green pistils & yellow stamen

as rain trickles down leaf & stem

rendering petals

invisible

 

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Notes of Rain​

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When pie & grape have fallen into the mouths 

of ravens who assault the meal with brio & bounce

 

when crust falls from their beaks & dog chases them

pointlessly, pawing the mash potatoes & wrinkling

 

the picnic blanket, its plaid no longer orderly-square,

when wind joins in & purloins your hat, shatters china, 

 

launches white napkins up & sideways, when you wonder

if this meal was even meant for you as talons scatter 

 

ketchup & snout rifles through beans, consider:  

this fare may not be for you, but there is feast in the wild 

 

valley of switchgrass, its ends pink as champagne, 

& in the locust tree flowers, heady as grapes. 

 

You can walk away from blanket & brittle dish & hat

& napkin & mayhem crows & hapless canine

 

& dine on the banquet of sky piled high with juicy 

clouds & its simmering bouquet of breeze 

 

& notes of rain.

~inspired by Andrea Kowch’s “Soiree”

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