Conspiracies

The random caws of crows

I hear as I unload the dishwasher.

I look out to see three birds gathered

round the war memorial

and the flag.

Deep black against the abiding snow,

they are unfairly beautiful

in their strength and the sun. The crows

are up to something, I’m sure.

After all, conspiracies abound in the spring.

Why only yesterday, I saw crocuses

huddled on the corner of my lawn

trying to escape my notice,

and last night I heard the whisper of the rain

telling me secrets that I repeat

in case they’re true.

Return to Kansas

I walk toward Kill Creek,

the water raging with the silt and soil

of De Soto and running down to the Kaw.

All I can think of is Willy Wonka

and his chocolate river

even though you died

only four months ago.

I can almost laugh along

with all the sunflowers

turned to me, big smiles

in wonder,

a field full of hope/

a sky full of dread

and warning of the coming,

the second and last one,

a day of judgement

or a storm

not unlike the one the wicked witch felt.

Not unlike a house falling on me.

I watch a blackbird rise

and know there should be more in my head

than a yellow brick road,

something to dance upon.

I am grateful

for a moment

of blinding sun.

I See Now

I see now

the sky between the branches

and air holding up the snowflakes,

pushing them down.

In a green bottle there becomes a space

between the neck and the wine,

and there is a dancing wind

in the fire, a tongue of air

unnoticed before,

that same space left as the bones in my legs

disappeared when they told me

you were gone.