Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don’t look back,
the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits –
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours
to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You’ll never know
who’s down there, frying those eggs,
if you don’t get up and see.
Dawn Revisited, Rita Dove
Look at where we are, Hot Chip (Major Lazer Remix).
In for the Kill, La Roux.
I’m going in for the kill
I’m doing it for a thrill
Oh, I’m hoping you’ll understand
And not let go of my hand
The heart of a bear is a cloud-shuttered
mountain. The heart of a mountain’s a kiln.
The white heart of a moth has nineteen white
chambers. The heart of a swan is a swan.
The heart of a wasp is a prick of plush.
The heart of a skunk is a mink. The heart
of an owl is part blood and part chalice.
The fey mouse heart rides a dawdy dust-cart.
The heart of a kestrel hides a house wren
at nest. The heart of lark is a czar.
The heart of a scorpion is swidden
and spark. The heart of a shark is a gear.
Listen and tell, thrums the grave heart of humans.
Listen well love, for it’s pitch dark down here.
Arrhythmia, Hailey Leithauser
Doreen St. Félix (New Yorker) and Maggie Haberman (NYTimes)on a lady of the moment.
And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
[…]
Starfish, Eleanor Lerman
Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours
out wishes to the overhead stars.
The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow
coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.
Summer Grass, Carl Sandburg
The stars are pinned between the leaves
of the trees, and love is only a harbinger,
a regular Boy Scout handbook
of things not to do, and how to do other things,
small chores you’d never think of,
and supper gets cold on the table.
But I can’t leave here without
taking you with me.
And the formal customs we once had,
like wearing red during hunting season,
are only signposts pointing the way
in and out of the territories—
colored leaves floating on the water,
hesitant, before the rains come.
Field Guide, Cynthia Zarin
Through the young and awkward hours
my lady perfectly moving,
through the new world scarce astir
my fragile lady wandering
in whose perishable poise
is the mystery of Spring
(with her beauty more than snow
dexterous and fugitive
my very frail lady drifting
distinctly, moving like a myth
in the uncertain morning, with
April feet like sudden flowers
From “Puella Mea” [Through the young and awkward hours], E. E. Cummings
The danger and its necessity focused them, made them calm. (TM)
