Listen
 

There – there is the house of the farmer, his horses
stabled and whinnying, his tractor
not yet whirring. The birds, alighted
in the tree since dusk, now stir. The tree

is feathered; the leaves, shirred,
by a breeze that shakes birds free,
who, like a dark scarf knitted toward sky, unfurl.
The stream is buzzing,

gleaning minerals from rocks, grasses
from its banks, and leaves, leaves
crazed, glassy, rafted
downstream. They have fallen, caught

by currents. From among the reeds
the leaves swim toward center, darkening.
The stream shrugs them into place.
Here is where the broken reassemble.

From above, if one could hover
above, the leaves would look an X.
Not exactly. Splayed-armed,
splayed-legged, an X

with a neck-stalk, a head, languishing,
and brown, brown, as a kiss of sun
at the nape of the neck. The stream strokes
him, feathering him into rocks.

The birds, canopied above, throb,
spread into a mirrored shape. The birds –
the birds are speaking.
What, no one will hear.  

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Cati Porter is the editor of Poemeleon: A Journal of Poetry. Her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from mamazine, Literary Mama, MotherVerse, Poetry Midwest, Poetry Southeast, and the anthologies Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel -- Second Floor (No Tell Books), White Ink: Poems on Mothers and Mothering (Demeter Press) and Letters to the World (Red Hen Press). Visit her blog at http://catiporter.wordpress.com.  

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autumn 2007 | kaleidowhirl
books and chapbooks from authors in this issue