We Are Not Fully Born Until

We are not fully born until:

the last dream drops away
pretend is not a magic word
we fly no more in sleep

and slowly we perceive
that sometime in our rational days
we woke

and will not sleep again until

February 25 2010

An Explosion of Sudden Starlings

An explosion of sudden starlings takes us
slightly by surprise.
We did not expect them to appear
near here for weeks; but then,
this does explain why all the bushes speak.

Half align along the wire;
the rest fly farther into fog.
A row, a cloud; they take the forms
that suit each circumstance.
But I have barely time to wonder at their being here,
when looking up, I see that they are gone.

February 25 2010

The Crow Flies Low

The crow flies low,
an unexpected traveler
across a road that smaller wings
and hurrying things
normally patrol.

Its prize is only a feeder seed,
certainly a poor result,
but maybe at this winter's end
appropriate
and anyway something for
an empty craw.

It is hard to dislike a bird
that takes fortune where it finds it.
Maybe there's complaint, but who would not?
And never was a crow who cawed
when food was to be found
or in its beak.

February 19 2010

Before a Forecast Storm

They plane in toward the wire and then are lost,
but as we pass, their chuckling voices comment
on our passing.

So far I have seen tomorrow
in only a flake or two.

At the field, blue tufts of fur on the frozen ground
suggest without sound a death
here or near here. He takes no notice:
even scent is silent.

In this waiting calm,
squirrels are ubiquitous.
The quiet draws them out
to run across their rooftops,
unregarded by the passing cars.

Upstanding limbs of trees are bare and still
to let the winter pass from cloud to ground.

Another tree speaks noisily
about sparrows it conceals
in green.

We walk uphill through light that makes us,
like the sky and yards and houses,
luminous.

Looking out of doors I see
it still has not begun.

February 10 2010

It Is a Pleasure To Be Washed Up On This Sand

It is a pleasure to be washed up on this sand.
With each sip I marvel yet again. How, precisely,
did I elude those rocks that I had placed
to sink me, and ride rough currents,
channeled by those obstacles and
designed to crush in bewildering night,
to here?

It will not bear looking at--and yet again,
it may. Let me glance aside and let
internal eyes capture and contain
this miracle for my own posterity.

Meanwhile, I will struggle up the strand
to where the exotic trees stand
ready for my building, in anticipation of
your coming home.

February 4 2010

It Is a Quiet Loneliness

It is a quiet loneliness of the flesh
that may sometimes come sidling in,
behind the groceries,
unnoticed in the updating of lists,
and taking the farthest back seat
where the rearview mirror cannot see,
each time that we pick up or drop off.

At such times, it is a painful victory
to wake, to realize this unwanted guest,
and then I would wrap you to myself
like your warm blanket; I would hold
your precious head to mine, and fill
with its curves and hollows
my empty palms and fingers, telling you
and no one else that missing you
is more than loneliness can bear.

February 4 2010