Every day I remind myself
that the heat required for production combusts.
Think small to large--
something to come from nothing.
Start languid, liquid, lingering
in tepid stagnant air as forearms stick to the desk.
I envy the canaries outside--
lithesome they flit from balcony railing to hydrangea
and out to the sun-bleached sky--
Me, concrete in my corner crack knuckles and commence.
Nearly always, the storm comes
without preface or preamble. A beam of lightning
in opaline blue until burgundy clouds
dropped from the mountain wash the world in wind--
The papers on my desk take wing
after their canary brethren to the balcony scatter
to the street corners and parqueaderos--
finding refuge in the ears listening for something human--
to make the orchids grow
from telephone wires and purple the concrete.
I do my best to hold what I can--
stake with nail and hammer to the top of my desk
so that it won't blow away. Those that stay--
those are mine. A private kaleidoscope
until the next squall blows
and the process repeat.