Solstice

This entry is part 8 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

 

How do we know the brown creeper fishing
in the dark valleys of the walnut tree’s bark
could not tell this landscape

from the moon’s? Past midnight, we craned
our necks toward the heavens’ gathered dark
and saw the shadow-play of bodies

entering each other’s path: the brief
interruption and embrace of light
by dark and dark by light, the face

of one passing over the other when
they’re perfectly aligned. Then
without rancor, without remorse

the plumb line lifts— and it seems
the world is as it was before, though all
that has transpired has changed

even the color of the morning sky.

Luisa A. Igloria
12.21.2010

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Scherenschnitte

This entry is part 7 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

 

On otherwise lifeless
tansy stalks, a green sprig
and a single yolk-

colored bloom. Snowflakes
drift past: far-flung voyagers,
their exile brief, their nostalgia

cut and crystalled with salt.
Harbor me in cold earth,
my winter lover. I long

for home most of all
when small birds come
to forage for seed

and light sieves
through cracks
in stones.

Luisa A. Igloria
12.18.2010

Borrowing lines from the Morning Porch entry for December 4.

With winter’s gift of unimpeded sight,

This entry is part 5 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

 

I watch crows circle a dark carcass
a hundred yards off through the woods.
Only this white backdrop could make
bearable, the way the elements
have chosen whatever’s returned
as offering to the wheel. In spring
or summer we’ll come across its bones
under new growth of grass, bleached
white as stars that filter light
all this way through nets of trees.

Luisa Igloria
12.16.2010

Borrowing lines from the Morning Porch entry for December 13.

What Leaf

This entry is part 4 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

 

What leaf is small and black and falls
more slowly than a feather?

What ink washes deeper blue
then sable as it nears the shore?

What crystal spangles every
lidded eye on trees and bushes?

What letter writes itself over
and over in the wind?

A fire dances up in the trash burner,
the brightest thing.

Luisa Igloria
12.14.2010

*

This one borrows lines from my Morning Porch entry of October 21, 2008. (The title is my own.) Thanks, Luisa!