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Posts Tagged ‘heron’

Touched

 

 

 

The heron flies away

and its great blue wings

touch the surface of the water.

For a time, after the heron

is gone, the twin concentric wrinkles remain.

If you leaned far enough, you could

see your reflection in ripples,

your image warped by the memory

of flight. The water

returns to its stillness,

your face again your familiar face—

but that is not the way

with all memories.

Sometimes, we

never see ourselves

the same again.

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One Consolation

 

 

 

today in the trees

and in the gray March sky

not one heron—

today enough to know

sometimes there are herons

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three roosting herons

in the empty cottonwood—

 

stopping to watch

them not move,

 

I knew

so completely,

 

though I

would perhaps

 

argue against it

now,

 

beauty

is enough.

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blue heron

in the tree top—

this quickening heart

 

*

 

I draw for myself

a new starting line—

on your open palm

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Two Beside the Fish Pond

the more still the blue
heron sits on his rock the more
my thoughts grow wings

*

such a fleeting
darkening on my face—
the shade of herons

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This morning, first day
of spring, it is gray. The snow
is not done with its melting.
Green is still a not yet thing.
I wake with the words of Anthony
de Mello tangled in my dream.
Enlightenment, he says,
is absolute cooperation
with the inevitable. I know
what he means, and I
do not. I have my ideas.
That is the problem.
Like this morning,
how before the sun rose,
I saw, lacing the turns
of this narrow river canyon,
the blue heron, his arced
wings glancing the negative space
where the leaves would be
in the crowns of the cottonwood trees.
Because I had never
before seen one here,
I thought it never would be.
Anthony would suggest
I just say yes to what is,
which is to say yes
to the dull brown mat of the field
and yes to the mud, and yes
to the pushy wind, and yes
to the longing in me for green.
And yes to the wanting not
to want. And yes to the unlikely great
blue wings. And yes to the way
the bird disappeared around the bend.
And yes to the longing that rose
in me then—just one more
glimpse. No? And yes to the absence.

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I tell myself
there will be more light
still I don’t like it
this scent of old wood splintering
as the roof blows apart

*

my life packed
in boxes–the urge
to lose them

*

the orchards in us
not enough hands
to harvest all this ripeness

*

one heron
in great blue wings he gathers
the whole world

*

I thought I knew
who I was, then the bars
bent enough
I could slip outside of her
how many bars don’t I see?

*

sky so pink
I make of myself
an offering

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I didn’t really want to send flowers, anyway.
Better to send the blue heron I was watching tonight
as it waded the river. Better to send its ungainly flight,
how it rose liltingly above the cliffs then disappeared.
Better to send the feeling that rose in me when,
like a visual echo, the great bird returned, this time
directly above me, its wings a dark silhouette in the pinking sky.
As it is, I send the silence after, silence the way the water
is silent when it has no shore to kiss. As it is, I send
silence, silent the way the lilies I thought to send
would have opened in your room, silent as their fragrance.

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blue heron
so still in the sky
my heart beats
faster than
its wings

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alongside the cliff
keeping pace with my car
the blue heron

*

flying blackbird
dead mouse in its beak
this too is peace

*

more wind
than woman
this flesh

*

midnight
even the whitest lilies
are blue

*

sharing breath
with the crow
the whole world is crow

*

in the nest,
two blue eggs
two wide brown eyes

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