How is it possible?
Echoes in the void
left by silent winter.
The ebb and flow
of time
Green language returns.
Take it as a sign
that the same old song
continues.
How is it possible?
Scarlet in the canopies,
soliloquy.
This duet,
you and I,
must go on.
Not without you,
but dancing to your tune,
wherever it’s heard.
Call met by response,
speak,
and I’ll hang on each
and every
word.
I will return,
I will return.
How is it possible?
Listen,
and you will find
the answers you seek.
Overcast skies,
mourning doves crooning,
cars gliding slowly
across soaked asphalt.
Wisps of steam
rise from your teacup,
raindrops streak
down the half-open windows
of the screened-in porch —
pooling on the sills and
trickling from the gutters.
The world grinds to a halt,
just for this moment.
Breezes blow in
through the insect screens,
rustling branches
and carrying
wafts of petrichor
that connect you
to the world you swore
you’ve escaped from.
A few more minutes
out here
couldn’t hurt.
The tools of the trade:
Cryptic plumage,
Hawkish mannerisms,
And a steady supply,
Of child soldiers.
The cuckoo lies in wait,
Standing stealthily,
Avoiding strife,
With her victim’s eventual lapse,
She strikes.
Though they care not for their neighbors,
They do have a knack,
For finding babysitters,
Despite their reputation,
As impolite guests.
The screaming chick,
Sounds like the clutch,
Of hungry children,
It jettisoned.
On the other hand,
In the other hemisphere,
The cowbird makes little effort,
To make its egg inconspicuous,
Instead it relies on mob mentality.
The mom pays a visit,
To her nest of choice,
Which will be destroyed,
At the first sign of resistance,
To their alimony.
If there’s any acrimony,
It isn’t apparent,
As the often very different parent,
Raises the imposter.
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IMAGE CREDITS:
https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/c/cuckoo/
http://jasonking.net/site/brown-headed-cowbird/
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I sigh,
From where I lie,
Chin held high,
While my eyes imbibe,
The flowing sky,
And all is right.
It’s an unusually bright,
Afternoon,
Already.
Leaves of grass,
Are weaved,
Underneath,
My back-
My hair and clothing,
Have dandelion seeds,
Clinging to them.
“The garden returns,
The flowers bloom, the weeds rise,
All from the sun’s rays.”
I sit up,
And feel the light,
Caress my face,
Hit my hair,
Warm my shoulders.
“Hello, Sunshine!
I’m glad you’ve stopped by,
Thanks for everything.”
I’m pleased to announce that I’m the winner of Short Tale Shrew’s 2016 spring microfiction contest! You can visit their page by following the following link.
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Diamond-plated steps,
peeling paint,
and a cardboard ruler
demonstrating the height requirement.
Pewter pistons,
hidden hinges
standing cushions,
eroded by time
and centrifugal force.
Blinking lights all around the ridges
and a long line of patrons
brandishing bracelets
soft drinks,
plush prizes
and crumpled tickets.
The ride spins,
blinking like a UFO,
ready to launch
and fly faster than light,
but it never gets off the ground.
You stumble around,
pretty dizzy,
ready for the next thrill.
“One more time?”
she says.
Your hair is mussed,
from the last six times,
she asked.
“Why not,”
you say,
while turning about face,
to stand single-file
once more.
It’s not that pine trees,
Have a lot to hide,
They just don’t have much,
To show.
Standing solid,
Solemn,
Stable,
Their needles as green,
As they ever were.
Crows, for being draped in black,
Are not very stealthy,
Rather garrulous,
Cawing in threes,
Bobbing, posturing,
Perched in the trees.
The rusted-out fire pit,
Doesn’t do very much,
In the day,
Besides,
Retain,
Past rain.
I’m sitting on the old bench,
That’s been here,
Since before I was,
Thinking about how,
The more things change,
The more they stay the same.
The File Pile 