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Poetry By
  Ann Walters


Published on: 9/12/2006
He Speaks Stars

He speaks stars into my ear:
just for me Arcturus and Capella ring their silver glow.
No other voice is as clear.

A hundred galaxies are brought near
to my thirsty fingertips to touch is to know.
He speaks stars into my ear,

whispers words like Pleiades and nebula, not mere
lovers' trills, and when he does, time sways slow.
No other voice could be so clear.

Nighthawks cry as a catalog of myth appears:
hunter and herdsman, fox and dog, virgin and crow,
when he speaks stars into my ear.

He pulls comets from their courses to veer
into my palm, sings dusky stardust from his throat.
What other voice could be so clear?

Earth hums with life, but I hear
only the lovestruck sigh of the cosmos
as he speaks stars into my ear.

There is no other voice so clear.


Published on: 10/23/2006
Oregon Morning

This morning the rain won't stop.
It falls with fury, pelting the world
with liquid fists that rage
against the notion of sunshine
and clear skies. Expect sun breaks,
the weatherman says without laughing.
I'd like to believe, and maybe I will,
for the downpour slackens, slows into a sprinkle,
then pauses. A hairline crack of blue
fingers the clouds apart until
a narrow pistil of light stretches from heaven
and I smile at its sunny bloom. And that is when
the sky lets loose one long last raspberry
into my upturned face.


Published on: 8/18/2006
In Dreams He Purrs

Spring cleaning today
and I found a crumpled ball
of paper in the corner, nestled
under clumps of dust.
It held no message, just the echo
of a pounce.

In the kitchen we move freely,
no frantic beggar beneath our feet
though still I watch for mice
on the run from games
of four-footed field hockey.

I wear the necklace with the slim
silver chain, three links shorter
thanks to toothsome kitten frolics,
before exuberance was tempered by age and illness.

The bathroom sink holds only toothpaste stains,
no longer a place of cool repose
brimfull of soft tabby fur.

When I sleep, there is a ghostly
weight across my legs,
a comforting rumble in my ears.


Published on: 6/19/2006
A Night in Zion

We were lucky, which is always
better than good. We stumbled
into the last room for rent
in the only lodge of a park
we never meant to visit.

It was the whirl through Utah
to Arizona, through hours of desert.
It seemed static, until we stepped
from the car and felt the dry rain
of sand particles of time
lifting a raven's wings.

Then we missed the turn. Took
the detour. Descended the slow slice
from rim to floor that transported every tired
minute stacked up in an ordinary existence
into this unmissed opportunity.

And so we watched a three-quarter moonrise
crown walls of rainbow stone, their colors
dim but tangible. We felt fibrils of scarlet heat
dangle from the rocks while a cool kiss
of lavender rose on the river's breeze.

We listened to layers of orange
hum harmonic vibrations
along the cliff where bats flopped
black against the stars,
and stood surrounded by deer
wallowing in darkness, our arms
draped in the soft sigh of rumination.

We understood that this was the place
we had been seeking. A place where the night
moves, takes shape, and reveals
the echoes of a perfect world.
We were lucky.

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