Kingfisher —
Gray-crowned, poised on a wire —
Waits a moment
Then plunges to desire —
Like an arrow in the rising sun.

While a seed
Or a feather in the wind
Wanders this way
And that.
Never to its own end.

One eye closed against the sun,
I wait for September.
See two golden leaves,
And in moonlit insomnia
Listen, impatient,
For the owls’ conversation.

Broken in the twilight
That bends before dawn,
Communing with cardinals,
Acknowledging loss —

And I would go further,
If I could,
Away from voices —
Faces —
All the eyes that know too much.

I watched you sing
In late summer’s glow —
So many years gone now.
And avoiding sly spiders
Who weave webs
Against the light,
Searched out kinder eyes —
And refracting the glow.

But fire crept among them.
So I stumbled to the river edge.
Moths in the streetlight —
I could hear their cries,
And like them I looped in blind flight,
And knew the destined
Would leave me
Glowing embers, at best.
Or just ashes
To be scattered
Like those seeds,
In the wind.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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