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
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
that same space left as the bones in my legs
disappeared when they told me
you were gone.