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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