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Posts Tagged ‘heron’

So I Spend It Again

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 3, 2024| 8 Comments »




Before sleep, I touch it again,
that moment this morning
when I slipped out before sunrise
and sat in the pale blue light
and watched a lone heron
trace the curve of the river
before disappearing behind
golden cottonwoods.
It lasted, what, three seconds?
But those instants of awe
have returned to me again
and again like a coin I spent
on something beautiful
only to find, by what miracle?
it returns to burn a hole
in my pocket again.


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Hope

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on January 5, 2021| 6 Comments »



Nudged by hope
the heart rises
from exhaustion.

It’s like the great blue heron
I saw this morning
flying up from a wasteland

on broad gray wings
with strong, slow beats
for a moment charged

with grace
before—did you
see this, heart?—

it chose to land again,
bringing all its beauty
to the desolate place.

This poem is published in the wonderful ONE ART Poetry Journal

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Touched

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 22, 2017| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

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

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 9, 2016| 4 Comments »

 

 

 

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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Pulled Over on the Highway

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 9, 2016| 1 Comment »

 

 

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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Two Invitations to Go Very Slow

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 27, 2016| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

 

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

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 24, 2014| 2 Comments »

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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The Inevitable

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 20, 2013| 1 Comment »

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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Change: Six Attempts

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on July 28, 2012| 3 Comments »

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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But 1-800-Flowers Couldn’t Deliver

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on July 4, 2012| 2 Comments »

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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the mastery of the thing tanka

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on May 19, 2012| 6 Comments »

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

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Three Birds and a Woman: Six Haiku

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on May 6, 2012| 2 Comments »

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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Postcard to Emily

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 30, 2011| 1 Comment »

How the old mountains drip with sunset
—Emily Dickinson

Dear Emily,

It was just as you said, tonight,
the San Juans rose and blue,
and in the shallow reservoir,
the herons dripping, too—
I did not mean to startle them
as grayly there they stood,
but on hushed feet I stepped myself
into solitude.
Wing after wing they rowed themselves
into the muted dome
till all went dim—oh dark abyss!—
and we were held as one.

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I’m Trying to Learn, Walt Whitman

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on October 29, 2011| 1 Comment »

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle.
—Walt Whitman

Balanced against morning frost
I do not see
the great blue heron
wading in the river
so I put it there

*

Meredith mentions
a student who insists
on painting
into the foreground
a rock

*

“All she needs is a darker color,”
Meredith says, “and a value
like a triangle
and the canvas
would be full of light”

*

You do not have
to be talented—even
my three year old girl
knows how to paint
something that makes her smile

*

It is not a painting,
this life, still
there was a heron here not
long ago, standing in frost
it was so beautiful

*

Here and not here,
light and dark,
so many years spent
debating the two—this morning
I see it, the river chimed in frost

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