If there were no life
Would not the Earth
Still have beauty?
If skies were not
So blue
Nor clouds so shapely
Set against blue
If tides never rose
To purl across sand
If all were stone
Pocked with volcano
Cluttered with crater
Naked of everything air
Would not the Earth
Still have beauty
If there were no eyes
To catalogue her wonders?
How He Named Himself
He was magician
At the back of his tongue
Language awoke
Invoked the porous senses
In example, the word “blue”
From his mouth
Fell into air
Unfurled before his eye
To fill an ocean
Or a cloudless sky
Breezed with recollection
Bitter and sweet
Like summer drowned in heat
Other words named other seasons
Spring’s flushed lovers and mothers
Fall’s jealous kings and princes
A blush of yellow stamen
Vain, reduced to bare reflection
While legions tolled to war
Because he said “winter”
And Krakatoa split
And every illness known to man
Rattled into silence
Until his lips shaped “time”
With all its varied futures
Claiming death and birth
Irrelevant, like glacial ice
Though he never said “ice”
Because “cold” would do
Or “lonely”
A chill on the skin
Squeezed down to marrow
With all the scenes he wove aloud
Chorused, plural tenses
In a singular verb
The act that names him “poet”
I made this video in early March of last year. Today is an almost perfect repeat. It’s a day made for blankets, manuscript revisions, and query letters. It’s the kind of day that makes me grateful for my laptop, because my feet get cold when I have to sit at my desk.
Publication update:
I’m happy to report that one of my poems, “The Devil Is in the Details”, appears in the most recent issue of Willows Wept Review, released this week. Issue Thirteen is available in print and PDF download.
One of the first purchases we made, after moving into our house, was a nest box for the back yard. Much to my disappointment, summer after summer passed with no nests. Then I ran across an article (I can’t remember where) that said birds prefer nest boxes positioned so the entrance faces north. With nothing to lose, we moved our unused nest box. Immediate success.
A pair of chickadees!
I spent many happy hours watching them stuff the nest box with pear petals and moss. But something went wrong and the nest failed. Later, when we cleaned the box, two tiny unhatched eggs made me want to cry.
In subsequent springs, we’ve watched more chickadees build more nests in the box, and all have failed. Only once did we know why. Bumblebees.
Now I’m tempted to take down our nest box, as it seems a source of great disappointment for both the birds and myself. But I suppose the bees need a place to nest, too. Maybe I’ll leave it one more year…
Falling victim to our odd non-winter, one of my irises lost track of time and bloomed far too early. Its madness stokes my mania for spring. I’m restless and unfocused, tempted to open my windows despite the cold. Should I trust the iris? Perhaps it is a more reliable prophet than a sleepy groundhog…
Rae Spencer 