Month: March 2011

Thin virgules newly drawn on the upper limbs of trees;
and in between, the gathering forms of nests.

I thought the hydrangea bush was dead— but yesterday,
beside the gate, buds of whorled green, clustered like nests.

A pair of hawks glides in and out of the pines, exchanging
urgent, nasal cries: Come hither? Come feather? Come nest?

No longer indistinct, these warming undercurrents in the air.
I’ll cut my hair, trade my soft greys for orange, I’ll leave the nest.

I thought we’d inventoried every trail. But here’s another
flocked with green, smelling of earth, littered with tiny nests.

—Luisa A. Igloria
03 04 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Days past the last rain and the creek
sings in a lower key, like a boy turning
into a man. The water’s clear, learning
again how to be blue. The minnows know
how pebbles make a splash then eddy,
no two marks ever the same. The girl
who used a stool to clamber into bed
last night it seems swings her long
woman-legs over in the morning.
And then before you know it
they’ve gone away, leaving the braided
grass, the tire-marked lane, the rusted
gate that creaks in the slightest wind.

—Luisa A. Igloria
03 03 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Little bytl, little mallet, hammer
steadying to bear down quick
upon the nail, the polished wood along
the length of the barre hardly belies
the place where, surely, your flat edge
bucked the rivet’s tail against the shaft.

And the dancers, you can almost see them
lay their palms for ballast as they hoist
their grand battements into the air, then
hold them there. And their arms, like brachia
of suspended trees, bend to ease sleek heads
toward the hardwood floor. What do you imagine

the afterlife to be? A brace will bind a sail
to make it taut against the wind. Outside,
the tarp of leaves disguises as its shadow;
a bird rigid in the cold clear air skims
between the currents, its sooty wings
outspread as if in annunciation.

—Luisa A. Igloria
03 02 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Weathered mountain laurel, green bush
under the trees. No tube of verdigris or beryl
could wash you drab. Nile green, emerald
and olive, scale of a fin disappearing in bottle-
blue water. Thumbnail of lime, salted kale,
rough my heart up in the pines. Bronzed
and bladed, apple-green, Prussian-sheened
and prismed, sometimes you hurt my eyes
but I can’t look away: set us all on fire.

—Luisa A. Igloria
03 01 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.