AN OWL TREE
Suddenly there is no one left I wish to talk to,
The click of feathers and hollow bones,
The bird away, the dog excited.
The air heavy with rain
the bluest wet sky
and in this place where no breeze blows,
no breeze blew.
the branches of the great trees are talking to each other,
their leaves folding into one another,
and the moon slips behind a clash of consonants,
a sudden lurch of lightning
and after a day of heat and sunlight,
night comes with water
Sit outside with me a moment.
You can finish your chores tomorrow.
Tonight is a time for the movements of air,
a dialogue of branches,
the conducting of clouds,
and if we get wet, no matter,
I am in your debt.
knocked the earth out of me,
thick clods, mud worn,
blood listing from the Bodhi tree,
so I took the bones and planted them
in the grass filled yard of leaf and wind
near the place where breathing comes easy.
JACK FROST SLEEPS WITH GOLDILOCKS
Cold sleeps in the room with Beauty
rearranging itself into frost giants and lumberjacks.
Snow White is still in development,
and Loki—well, he’s already a myth.
This I know: Beauty sleeps under twenty blankets
and always feels the pinch of the pea; grows her hair
long enough to cut, and cuts it; carries fresh meat pies
through the forest to lure wolves to their death
and skins them; and when she falls asleep in her brass bed,
the cold remains, unremitting, like a poisoned apple,
like a hundred year sleep, like a broken glass slipper
Humpty Dumptied into so many pieces
no prince in love can glue it back together again.
Michael H. Brownstein