Note: Here’s a favorite poem from my forthcoming book, Some Glad Morning (Pitt Poetry Series, University of Pittsburgh Press). We’re just back from Florida, and I’m in love with the abundant bird life there. (firstname.lastname@example.org)
I turn into an egret, lifting one leg,
then the other, a slow dancer, concentrating
on what might lie beneath the thin skin
of the pond, pulling all my thought
into the slim needle of my lethal beak.
No guilt. That silver fish is mine. I
am pure, the absence of color, the moon
fallen to earth. Peony petals, plumes
of thick wet snow. Luminous
origami. The clouds echo my name.
When I take wing, there's my double,
reflected in the water's gray silk.
Someone ought to draw me, perhaps
an elderly Chinese painter using
a brush made of goat hair or pig bristle.
Embellished on a screen, I will patiently
wade there forever, or burst into bloom,
a water lily floating up to the sky.
first published in Miramar
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© 2019 Barbara Crooker