night iris
"night iris" was written for Firestone Feinberg and J.Lewis, in response to a prompt from Firestone on the V-V FB group page: PATIENCE.

in the second week
of april it begins again:
the ritual pre-dawn
sharpening of the knife,
pulling on the tall
black rubber boots,
leaving indentations 
in the softness of slowly
warming soil

in the second week
of april, I walk slowly
every morning before
dawn to greet the daybreak
at the creek, and while
the paintbrush iris
buds, as yet unopened,
are still wet with dew,
select one, slice
the stem, return
with it to the kitchen

place it in a mason
jar of water, center 
of the table, leave it
undisturbed. in evening,
after prayers and all
the house is silent
save the quiet harmonies
the refrigerator's hum
makes with the old
hound's snoring

when all the lights 
are out and i'm the only
one awake, I light
an oil lamp and place
it on the table by
the flower, settle in
and wait there for how
ever many hours
it takes for every
petal, each in turn,

to loosen slightly,
take a deeper drink
stretch as if it is
a new-formed
wing, then swing
free of its still-tucked-in
kin. and then the next.
through the darkest
hours, each will
do this.

and if you have no
irises with whom 
to spend the hours
between one a.m.
and dawn, yet find
yourself awake, it is
okay. all you need
to know is that there
is an iris somewhere,
by a creek or in 
a jar. if you cannot
sit with it in person,
just sit with that
knowing.

 



Our son returns
-in response to / inspired by "Prodigal Son" by Steve Klepetar, "prodigal" by Jim Lewis, and "So very tired..." by Firestone Feinberg, beginning with lines from "So very tired..." and borrowing the call of the African River Eagle in the closing stanza.
 
His eagles and his caves
His castles and his battlefields — 
His histories written in footprints
Upon each shore he's reached,
Erased and re-inscribed
Erased and re-inscribed — 
Surely this weariness is too much,
Surely he will fall to sleep,
And will not rise.
 
He phrases his good nights
In final tones, and if there are
More frontiers to conquer, farther
Coastlines to explore, let it be known:
He does not wish to know,
He does not wish to know — 
Surely his journey has be long enough,
Surely this weariness is too much,
He will not rise again.
 
Exhaustion has drained him
Through to the marrow, he has 
Spilled out, his bones are hollow –
And it is through these flutes
Ancestors murmur, whisper, louder
Ancestors murmur, whisper louder — 
And the sleeper's dream begins to fledge,
Callus the eons formed on him begin
To soften, fall away
 
His senses start to shape and sharpen
Into beak and talon, he turns in his
Sleep, begins to preen his wings –
His wings! How many lands did he traverse
Upon the dirt, weighted down to earth
Upon the dirt, weighted down to earth
So heavily he failed to hear the river's song,
Failed to heed the call? No matter,
Nothing else matters now

He can hear his mother's welcome
Once again, singing ripples, eddying — 
And he is already rising, circling on a thermal,
And the river senses every turn and chants:
heeah-heeah, heeah-heeah,
heeah-heeah, heeah-heeah
Our son returns.





the celebration of enough
-for j.lewis, in response to his poem "follow the Colorado"
 
i am the slowing, then
the place where a family of beavers
have gathered to begin again, to cut
through trees with rust-red iron teeth,
take nourishment from their tender
leaves and smaller branches, trim
their trunks and place them
across the narrows
begin construction of a firm
foundation behind which water can
begin to gather, accumulate, create
a habitat that will extend beyond merely
my own needs, a space that offers
sanctuary to many others, many species
i am the slowing, then
the eddying within the flow
the voice that says i hear the call
of ocean not-so-distant, but there is
no urgency, no hurry to hurry home
i am the slowing, then
that says we yet have time to create
one more watery Eden, one more
hidden garden
before we go