“Remnants of Treasure in Bucha,” “The Sense of a Poet,” and “28 January”

At thirteen, she wanders

fields near razed homes in Bucha,

hears echoes of cries eerie

in shattered walls. She shelters

in hollows of a hospital turned home.

Once upon a time, she was a child

with eager eyes in search

of trinkets in a greenhouse—

shiny bottlecaps and pieces

of a green alligator.

 

In a forest, she’d once unearthed

a bracelet, strung with beads

of pink and yellow glass,

intact with a working clasp.

Treasures she’d concealed in a box.

 

Now, sirens wake her

at dawn where she wanders out

and finds a yellow dress in a pile

of leaves beneath a weeping willow.

 

War had singed its hem.

She picks it up. Finds the skirt

can be altered to make it new—

a Sunday dress of happy colors.

From beneath a charred car,

she pulls a paisley scarf,

ties it about her neck—

wonders who it belonged to.

 

Under an old linden tree

she finds a woman’s ring,

a luminous pearl. Was it

once a gift? Who wore it?

She’s seen enough ruin.

Here, no one is shielded

from death or the promise of it.

When the song of a bird calls,

she follows its refrain.

 

A wren feathered in mottled

brown fusses about its nest

‘neath shelter of an eave.

Silent, she watches the bird,

small and unaware of despair.

 

The wren sings a sweet refrain,

goes about it humdrum tasks

with no foreboding of tomorrow.

 

In the basement, she finds

Mother folding clothes. She

asks for needle and thread,

scissors to shear yesterday

from the hem of a yellow dress—

as yellow as Easter morning,

and, like the winged wren,

the young girl hoards hope

as tomorrows lay blithely

                                          in an illusory box.

What if tomorrow, 

when the sun bloomed, 

I lost the light in my eyes? 

A poet blind to the coral 

of sunsets dripped west, 

or the flow of a loon 

in the lake eased in its way, 

splitting white fog hovering 

above the lilting lap of water.

But what if tomorrow, 

the cadenced lap of the water 

went silent. Where I’d stand

deafened to the fit phrase 

to sketch the timbre of a forest 

bereft of a lark’s lullaby?

How would I catch 

the sharp whistle of a train 

or the clack on the track

never to meet the ear— 

the ear of a poet 

where the word should sing

as a mocking bird? 

Listen. 

Listen.

Or, paused to feel the wind on my face,

what if no breeze stroked my cheek?

Or if I was no longer lulled by the caress

of silk perfumed in sweet jasmine?

What if the smell of life no longer

oozed from the forest floors?

The fragrance of oakmoss gone. 

Or what if, as a poet, I no longer savored 

the sweet of honey or the tart of a lemon,

its brilliant yellow on my tongue 

gone numb? The alarm of spoilt milk? 

What joys might I pen of a fine merlot?

Might I find words spilled in rhyme, diphthongs 

turned to dreams—to whispered memory 

imagined in two dimensions and unstirred.

Or—as a poet—would I embrace the ache 

of loss to infuse my verse—the hungers 

in my heart gushed in its dance of angst?

its foggy morning
drizzling as I walked
away from my house
a titmouse sat on the gate
bidding me good-day

above, angry starlings
squawked and flew
as if angry at me
and my eyes fell
to all the dead things—

trees barren holding
empty nests, grass
turned to beige,
leaves rotting
and tumbled branches
that could hold
no more water

my bones moaned
with each step
and in the distance,
a siren rang of distress
and then, a starling
pierced the air with its whistle.

Drops of water lingered
on thirsty grass,
a spurt of green
reminded me
spring was coming

and life was yearning
to return to my yard
and a bird feeder hung
empty calling me to fill
it for the winter birds.