April is a bird.
Oft taking form as a sparrow,
She’ll create art left unheard
And leave it to the care of swallows.
April is the two doves in mourning
On a depleting dogwood tree,
Or a mighty yellow chickadee,
Singing nothing but an angel’s glee.
Or maybe a dipper she was,
For she gave life to clarity and blue,
Asking nothing of the moon but to say adieu.
I think April is the black bird that waits
And the cardinal that flees.
She doesn’t stay up late
And each set gives her peace.
Of instant brew coffee in the early hours of blue,
Giggles to stifle before morning’s first light
And gardens aglow with fireflies to feed our nightly stew.
I dream of mornings as slow as night.
Of long summer days filled with banter and play,
A big yard teeming with myrtles, maples, and wild posies,
With foxholes, cicada shells, and tadpoles to grow and stay.
I dream of a house on a hill with azaleas leading the way.
Of deep crow’s feet putting my years of happiness on display,
Of warm winters nested in books and blankets– raw and cozy–
And of dwindling autumn days for me and my lover to mosey.
I dream one day my cheeks will always be blush, permanently turned rosy.
Of frames to smile at; memories to recite,
A child’s art to place by each degree
And years to brightly dight.
I dream of a life with easy glee.
Of winding weather to try me
And vagary ventures to brave,
One day, in seasons to see, I dream my words be irrevocably engraved.
Despite the questioning of my fragile esteem,
The scarcity of the fleeting time I give so freely.
And knowing in life there are no guarantees,
I start on the path that will lead me into a successful tomorrow.
I know some days will be stagnant or packed with sorrow,
But because I keep my head high, hands busy, and brows unfurrowed,
I trust the coming moons will flow like a stream–
The kind that navigates various pebbles, rocks, and boulders.
And so before I grow older,
I know I must nurture my childlike gleam
And continue to dream my silly, big dreams.
Planting a tree trusts in tomorrow.
At first it’s slim then grows with such vim.
The earliest bough nests a small sparrow
Who recites the tree’s hopeful hymn.
The next offshoot houses ambition–
A fiery pulse flowing through the limbs,
Making the leaves transition,
And allowing the hope to take root.
Some branches break under the addition,
Even causing wilting fruit,
But it seems the smallest buds that loom
Are the ones fit enough for the pursuit.
They will be the ones that bloom–
When days are cold and nights burn,
Through thunderstorms and the darkest of glooms–
Because they are the ones that learned–
To discern, to return.
It’s a prize we all yearn:
A place we have earned.
Carcass’s nightly bay convokes divination
Lost among his placement of the constellations.
Twelve keens welcome the rising darkness
As lungs gasp to tell the secrets of Carcass.
Under the barbless trees,
Carcass will bathe in his guarantees.
This god’s twelve devotees
Under his barbarous trees
Shall hence be deemed:
The Prophets of Trickery.
In small hours,
A red morning dew will fall
Blessing the hands of Carcass and all
Will return to the time as Carcass recalls.
It sticks to you like humidity–
Clouding vision, fogging memory.
The feeling doesn’t leave quickly,
Making paths uneven and slippery,
Footsteps tough, rough, even tricky,
Possibly changing one’s destiny.
Starlings do something bizarre.
They fly as high as the stars
And stop
Before asking to begin their daily devoir.
Then, from so far, they drop,
Pulling up just before the tree tops.
Breaths, blasts, and breezes– they limn–
Leaves fallen, ocean chops,
Moss that sops, a wilting prim,
Always paired with an intricate hymn.
Rain or shine, they paint the boundless expanse
As the orange and pink sky dims–
Each night with a different dazzling dance.
They do it for themselves, for joy, for romance.
These birds are grandeur, yet never ask a glance.
Never ask a glance.
Where the deer pass
There’s a vasty morass
Laden with snags and streams
That valley the grass.
Deep within the demes
There’s a lasting theme-
Devilry is rare-
Alas it still gleams
Catching breath by snare.
The forest cannot fare
Nor can they hide,
Leaving the floor dusty and bare.
The cardinals cried,
While blue jays chide,
And peregrines protested,
But the deer decided to bide.
Always full of zest
They let the forest behest
And lived life with dest.
Live life with dest.