The man walking his dog notices that under the bridal
wreath bush, a cardinal flickers like a pilot light.
The woman at her window sees the moon not yet
completely faded in the sky, half a pair of pearl earrings
she still keeps in her drawer though the other
has long gone missing. What parts do we need
to complete each other? Sometimes the day
wobbles like a cart with one wheel.
Sometimes it arrows like a train through
the countryside, even though we don’t see it.
We hear its rush onward, its insistent
push toward the distance. The cold
is intense today, and hard to withstand
alone, out in the open. The man gestures
to his dog and retraces his steps.
The woman turns away from the window.
In the bushes, a tiny red brushstroke
wavering in the cross-hatched branches.
—Luisa A. Igloria
01.22.2011 (via Blackberry)
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.