PALM SUNDAY DREAM

PALM SUNDAY DREAM

 

It began with an egg I broke

for the baking. A half-formed

chick clung to the yoke.

It could not be alive,

but it was alive, and

 

the musician and the farmer

standing beside me

lifted it from the shell, 

and warmed it in their hands,

and told me what to do.

APRIL QUESTION

APRIL QUESTION

 

When birdsongs are slowed

they are not music but

 

imperatives, challenges, 

summonings, complaints.

 

If our whinings and shoutings

and ragings were slowed,

 

would we hear them,

I wonder, as song?

 

 

If you’re interested, here’s where the idea came from::  https://www.workplacegallery.co.uk/video/20/)

APRIL FANTASY

APRIL FANTASY

 

The sun used to shine early every morning.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

And the breezes were very gentle from the south.

 

I would stand on the front step and breathe

the air scented with white daffodils.

A bluebird would light on my shoulder

 

and whistle in my ear. I’d go inside

and make breakfast for the family

and we’d sit around the table

 

enjoying wild raspberries and cream

before we went out into the world.

I’d have another cup of fresh-brewed coffee

 

in the garden, and then the bluebird and I

would clean house with the other birds,

all of us singing all the while.

ODDNESS AGAIN

ODDNESS AGAIN  

  ~That Bluebird Fair is back

Oh, how the edges are odd! 

Bread from white flour,

coffee carefully measured.

Opera in the afternoons.

Friends on the screen.

Walking on the other side.

Stop, says the sage, and I stop

in the driveway when the dog

stops to pee. Before sunrise:

a robin is singing, a cardinal,

a dove. Look: the bare trees

against a gray sky. The house

with her red roof, smoke rising

from the chimney, a light

shining in the kitchen window.

 

(Brother David Steindl-Rast recommends practicing “Stop. Look. Go” as a way of remembering to be grateful.)

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

 

Last winter, they surrounded me, circled

my head, sat on the bedposts, 

 

nested in the mailbox, ate all the onions 

in my garden. They sang through my sleep,

 

their sweet trillings and warblings

coloring my dreams.  I wore their cast-off 

 

feathers in my hair, lined my boots

with their fur. Where are they now?

 

Did the angel who keeps the flower bed

decide I’d had them long enough?

 

Oh, send me an owl! 

Just one would do—

 

one dark-eyed barred owl

to sit in the ash tree across the way,

 

just one owl in the ash tree.

Please make everything all right again.

 

Heat

 

HEAT

Heat eats time. Heat sits, placid 

monster, pale and bloated,

a vapid balloon across the land,

filling its maw with hours, 

ambitions, appetites,  joys.

It knocks birds from the sky,

cats from their windowsills.

Gardens sprout thermophilic

weeds and nobody cares.

No one can swim in the lake scum.

All the fans have broken.

 

Fighting is futile.

any knight who dares apprach

falls stuporous and weighted down.

 

Remember the cold?

Once upon a time 

it stretched its fine boned hands

over us, and what did we do then 

but whine?

Never again, we cry. 

O never again will we complain 

of its kind and gentle blue-frost smile.