rain is puddling on the grass
polishing pregnant leaves
empty garden table tops
silent deck planks
to mirror
sky and tree tops
like the side of
a kartoon kar
a drip
from leaf to puddle
and metal’s molten
lawn shifts dimension
grass greens become
silver slivers
all is slippy
flippy fluid
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Windows open season
has come to the north
bringing to the denizens
of the muffled world
the freedom
to step outside in sandals
let skin breathe
and allow the unfettered
display of tattoos
and body piercings.
With the media
tuned down
newly emerging survivors
of winter can
hear the words of the birds
until the beat on the street
plays its tattoo
or the drone on the phone
and pierces the ears
That attack
cloaks the world in
a dreary sameness
brings winter back
unwelcome
into the heart of
windows open season.
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In the morning
as I’m shaving
on a bright and
windy day
I glimpse something
quickly passing
by the window
—second floor?
Nothing could be
near that window
Are my eyes
deceiving me?
Could it be
a bird in passing?
It repeats:
that cannot be.
Like an arm
I see it flying
cast a shadow
on the wall
and my heart
is fairly pounding
hold the sink
or else I fall.
Then of course
the comprehension:
it is just a
simple branch
that I saw
peripherally;
getting old:
can’t take a chance.
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