It's Not About Robins

The hawks are happy today

they open their wings to encompass the sky
shifting so I see all their brown feathers,
spread to grasp every warm updraft
they create a tunnel in this spring air

I am happy today
to see them spin in
wide white circles
To know they spin up
to bring the warmth out of the earth
and twist down to drawn down the sun
their catabasis is what renews me today

But I wonder, as I sit in my car
will they climb higher
dare the sun in his sky
and come together
Will they clasp their claws
extend their legs towards one another
And tumble earthwards
Will they spin into one form
of feathers, talons and sun
Will they risk each other’s life
in the decent
Will the earth be soft and kind
if both are unwilling to separate.

For now they will turn
in a column of their own creation
Please bring back the spring
with the sun and earth.

The Verb: to Write

What is a myth

but a creation story told at slant;
a skewed eye speaking through its iris;
all the spectral colors of a rainbow
dancing through a space/time matrix
colliding with a web of well formed
malleable, plastic, electric rope mass
we call a brain.

What is a story
but a tale told over fire;
a groove carved into the earth;
an archetype with a thousand faces;
a goat track that everyone can follow
but is fully traveled by those who really know
the words by head and heart and hoof.

What are words
but A,E,I,O,U,
(and some days Y)
strung together with consonants
fastened with punctuation
meant to pierce the skin
and vibrate the flesh.

What is a plot
but catabasis or anabasis;
a series of descents, accents,
and single points
on paper and on air and on the lips of time,
written on the horizon of space;
an old woman with her old dog
wrapped in an old blanket speaking
I feel that’s all I have to say
               for now.

[2011]