that night

March evening storm

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?

Inconstant wind,
like hands that never entwine,
just move lovingly through my hair.

The wind moved that night,
filled with righteous violence.
Cyclonic angels fierce in their mission,
swirling songs from their twisted throats
singing to souls of houses and trees,
lifted in rapture.

That night, I followed the wind
then it twisted and chased me
all the way to your door.
But you had gone-
all that was left
was that not-you,
windless.

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?
Foolish bird.
Foolish wind.

*** For dVerse prompt tonight, we are chasing the wind. Hold onto your hats and join in!

The Wren and Her Song

Receding fog on the cove

Receding fog on the cove

We woke to deep fog.
Air so thick with moisture, water droplets formed on everything. We were drenched just taking our early morning walk with Theo.
As the clouds began to lift and the morning began to brighten, the brilliantly clear and LOUD song of a wren pierced the misty air.
As more of the fog receded and the sky became brighter, the louder her song. She was very proud of her effort and continued in full throated triumph until the sun had broken through and the skies revealed the beautiful sapphire blue of late winters day.

small brown wren
in glorious song
singing as if she alone is responsible
for the rising of the sun

signs and wonders

dove

An oddly auspicious confluence of events-
three padlocks on the road,
a black cat crossing my path,

three large black crows,
flying,
leading me all the way to our door,
an owl
peering from the ledge into the bedroom window,
backlit by the waning gibbous moon.

An intimate conversation
at the bar. She a sweet acquaintance,
shyly telling me of the healer
that drew the demon snake from her breast.
He held it out for her to see,
a glimpse of the shadow of a serpent,
drifting into dust motes swirling out the open window
into the moonless night.

The angel leaning on the lamppost
in a good friend’s poem
From writings of another poet,
a triad of angels watching from a hayloft.

Signs and wonders,
the rending of fabric,
the anticipation of a visit,
the expectation
of another
conversation with the angel,
the sound of wings,
an acclamation of doves,
a rapture.

In Like a Lion

Golden Trumpets

In Like a Lion

It seems that the rotation of the earth
speeds up and
gravity is loosened just a bit
as the gusts pull
at everything standing.

The creaks and moans
of the buffeted trees
carry across the ridge
with flying leaves
from swaying blackjack oaks.

Whips of forsythia
slice yellow over their heads
while the daffodils
hold onto their bonnets
and small birds hide
in the pollen sugared cedars.