Under the Deck
I hear the coo of the mourning dove
echoing down the chimney flue,
all the more melancholy
fluted by walls of tin.
I wonder what she thinks
up there, her tiny talons dug
into sticky, black shingles.
I wonder if, like me, she needs
these moments of peace
as the sun slits the envelope
of the pre-dawn sky.
I wonder what makes her
come back year after year,
twigs held in her beak as she
and her mate remodel
the same nest over and over
again. Surely, she must seek
other places from the bitter
mid-western cold, but every
spring, she bobs her head
like a cork upon the water
as she prances along the railing,
babies tucked safely just under
weathered wooden beams.
~
It’s the Little Things
the trill of tree fogs
as the parting sun
gathers dusk around her
like a gray flannel blanket
the crickets’ concerto
tiny violins in unison
tucked away in fields
of golden dandelions
the warm glow of fireflies
blinking on—off—on—off
dotting the horizon
like lanterns in the night
sweet tea on the front porch
condensation on glass
cool against my forehead
a farm hand’s summer night
~
A Moment of Sanity
I sit in this bubble of silence
a sacred space where my mind
can wind around S curves
climb the mountain side
stop at the scenic overlook
I stretch in this bubble of silence
inhale the sticky scent of conifers
conjure up a menagerie of redbirds
their songs carrying on the breeze
as I turn my face to the rising sun
It won’t last—this bubble of silence
but I will caress it as long as I can
my mind cushioned by lazy clouds
before voices break the reverie
before I must come back down.
~~~
Cacti Fur 