Category: Nature Poetry

I was lamenting again
my poverty, the conditions
that reduced my world into blocks and hoods,
and still today cuts boys and girls down
before their legs begin to take root.

I was lamenting
but then I saw the sparrows,
brown puffs of play
in the dirt, darting and twittering away.

Imagine, all of this suffering bursting
out of me like a diseased tree,
threatening to bury the sky and its night,
and the few stars the kids in the projects can see.
How selfish of me.

But the sparrows came,
and they played
with nothing but dirt;
they played,
and for that day, at least,
I and the world were saved.

The beauty of the World
unclothes herself in the waters of a river.
Admire her rippling surface,
the depth of her turning body,
the way the crystal scales of her fishes turn
and catch a bit of sunlight—
    and then the moment goes.

Beauty, she is there along the stones.
She covers their damp surfaces with emerald foam.

Fix your gaze
to see her moss, how the stardust of the land
emulates the form of the ancestors shimmering above.

She is everywhere,
within spirals-within-spirals
of repeating patterns,
yet she is a singular awe.

This is her shimmering beauty,
the loving face, shining through the World
as it is cradled in her infinite night.

Listen
as a choir of crickets offers
their prayers.

Those insects,
those tiny societally irrelevant
beautiful things,
their lives hold so much meaning.

I remember
how they kept me company
during hard days,
how I’d tearfully watch
as they went about their lives.

Their intricate and mysterious patterns
beyond my comprehension,
but not beyond

my joy.

It is late.
Beneath this moon
hangs an autumn chill.
The scorching heart eases with its touch.

In this space of cold clarity,
eyes close and ears hear.

From some long dead summer field
a familiar voice reveals
words that are echoed thoughts
beneath thoughts.

They speak
of a season changed.
They speak
of a sun veiled.

They speak
of fallen leaves.
They speak
of precious loss.

They speak
of gifts they offer.
They speak
of auburn woods and maple leaves.

They speak.
They speak
the word open.

Grief is a hot breeze swiftly
passing through a window
open to an autumn morning.