The Other day, as I was driving I saw a little flock of birds alight a wire.
They went up and down in a wave and settled near the traffic light.
It was red,
and I stared at them and thought of how they moved as one.
Like seeing instead of hearing a four part harmony.
How do they know where to be so perfectly?
she peels the stickers off the fruit to place them in a bowl.
In the mornings you smoothed the sheets.
If I was up early,
I’d watch your ringed hand glide
across the textured quilt.
Once I asked why
you were left to the remaking.
He has other work.
And I young (untried)
and privy to such encounters still,
felt stupid to have asked.
Alice Oswald is my newest literary obsession. I stumbled upon this article a few months ago which intrigued me. So, I went out and bought her book Woods etc. and was not disappointed. Her verse skillfully drifts in and out of strict meter, but it is only in the echo of her words that you realize the movements’ absolute perfection. She is an extremely talented poet. She draws her inspiration from nature and antiquity the combination creates a unique and grounded style. She is a naturalist, a classicists, but not a romantic.
I particularly love this picture of Oswald at her home with the books cascading down the steps. (She is a mother of three children).
to capture the moment
I take a picture of you-
those unrivaled rolls and cheeks.
(ah! that baby skin! that smile!)
Now, when you’re older I’m assured
to remember you, so perfectly encapsulated!
Yet I know you’ll be changed, grown
unfolded into maturity and real.
And I’ll look at the glossed relic
not with recollection
Northern Mockingbird Photo Credit
With a peripheral
dart you caught my eye
and this mornings’ catch
I see –
in your ebony beak.
A thistle shot up
between the stonewall and road,
and I awaited its peak,
Those purple blooms,
I kept returning to its rooted home,
But yesterday it wasn’t there.
Some weedwacker wacked it through
Looking at the trimmed edge.
Such a long anticipated prime,
I almost went again today.
a sparrow sharpens
his beak in two quick strokes then
darts into the birch.
With deep purple stars
streaking out from the centers
cascaded from the planter.
I watered them before we left.
They were a gift from you
and I trimmed and deadheaded
and adjusted them so well,
To please you (and myself.)
On our return they were browned
and dried out.
But there was still some green
and I could not forget
or let go of its opulence
So I trimmed, deadheaded
and watered them again
Adjusting the stems.
They may never be the same
I know –
But they might recover and
give me second joy.