|Oct/Nov 2000 Poetry|
Winter Visit from the Trickster
For weeks, the Trickster tramped
through the garden, sunlight pooling
in his footprints, the tulips enticed
by the breezy warmth of his songs.
Even the sap in the dogwood trees rose
to the occasion before another blue-norther
hiked in from the plains, spilling a glitter
of ice from its cloudy-gray knapsack.
By morning, the flowers displayed
attitudes of frozen perfection, crystal
paperweights on a loam-brown desk,
startled by the beauty possible in death.
All We Need
Another mourning dove nest
was blown to the rusty needles
beneath the pines, two white eggs
separated from futures.
No surprise, knowing the tiny
twig-and-stick platform perched
uneasily among the moving
branches was prey for March lions.
Each spring new nests appear,
hurriedly built, as if the birds
sensed some relentless schedule
that must be followed; feared
running out of time. Still,
at the feeders in the garden
there are more doves
than last year. Sometimes,