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Saturday, May 15, 2010

I Know

In her poem the blue heron leans toward the sun,

poised in a frozen pond, legs caked in frost.

I ask, "Is this real?" She says, "How quickly

time lapses. We need to pay attention."

I know when lost in the long light, I too

can forget the freezing clutch of the wind.

The sun sets without warning. The cold steals in.

Like the heron I'm held by what I love,

trapped by how it changes without notice.

She says, "I am going up into the sun."

I long for her grace as wild as the wind

as she soars the fired sky of the dawn.

Too soon I'll lie flat as ice on this bed

of drool and dream. From my frigid demise

there is no release. I know, like the crane,

my final cry will crack like hollow bone,

unfurl like smoke into glare, and perhaps,

smudge the cold, white sheet of another poem.