Friday, September 23, 2011



At the woods’ edge, the yellowest birch seethes with small birds—kinglets, I think. But by the time I fetch binoculars, the tree is still.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 09-23-11

The yellow birch tree quivers
from the sudden ambush
of twittering kinglets flitting
noisily from fenced-in trees
at the wood’s edge: it relieves
me of an ennui I have nursed
with the frigid gust of an early
equinox. I shrugged: Leaves
returning to shorn branches. 

The moving colour burst jolts
me out of the gloomy confines
of a hell I created out of cabin
doldrums and infernal rainfall.
How can all this beauty waylay
this grim desire to find a still
point whence I could abandon
a plague of hoarded loneliness? 

I must get out to catch myself
a dream: Where has it gone,
that bright touch of memory?
How can I lead it out, set free?
A hapless Orpheus who must
not look back at my Euridyce
come back from doom? I turn
around to look at the birds,
but the tree is still and green.

--- Albert B. Casuga

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