OVERCAST

 

Pale light, cast over many days,

spins illusions that bury truth and beauty

in abandoned cobwebs covered with dust;

          fades out every scene to grey

                   until sunlight becomes a memory.

 

 A bluffing wind is the only sound,

          nothing but a parrot’s hollow shriek,

          carried across the fallen trees’ branches,

          unheard among blurred apparitions

          drawn upon the slates of chilled, ashen days. 

 

Blazing light, recalled, is obscure and deflected,

          floats behind the eyes as shadows of the past,

          implies that truth is garish and beauty fleeting.

The haze of doubt is all that is known

          and overcast images boast about being 

                out of focus.

 

And thus, we wander on cloudy days

among ghostly sprites, whose malice hovers 

        above the morning sun rise 

            and brings ill-fortune,

                             a plague, and the chaotic chants of

                                      a grifter’s mistruths.

 

 

©cmheuer, November, 2021

TWO SQUIRRELS IN A HICKORY TREE

 

        A second-story window elevates both eyes

to upper leaf clusters;

makes visible the motion of leaves,

that move out of harmony

with the tree’s foliage sheath, 

that uniformly sways in the wind

or stands still in tranquil air;

transfixes focus on what is different from the rest;

raises questions about tree sprigs

that jerk in fits and starts,

sudden, sweeping twists of a single twig,

discordant flutters of a second twig,

without any bird flight near the tree

          until there is a pause in the shaking branches.

 

Two eastern gray squirrels

descend the tree trunk headfirst

before the fall’s hickory nutmeats,

grown in light brown shells and green husks,

weight down branches and fall to the ground,

the boughs reach out for the sun

without stirring the air.

 

Motionless again,

the tree breathes in and out

as if in deep meditation

or in the eye of a storm.

 

 

©cmheuer, 2021 

Days of Rain

 

Days of rain close in spaces

Shrink them beyond recognition

Glaze them with damp water colors

and translucent light. 

 

Water soaks deep into the earth,

Ponds around pines, oaks, and maples,

Washes away their fibrous underground grip,

Targets the tallest, oldest trees,

Fells their crowns,

Upends their root circles.

 

Long, loosened threads sway in the air,

Thin, string fringes swing

From hoisted mud clods,

Caked around broken, thick roots,

leaving craters filled with muddy water.

 

Fallen trunks and their large branches

Scatter the low light that travels close to the ground

As tree canopies open to the sound of their swan songs

For a brief illusion of light before the deep

Fog rolls in and closes in the spaces

Among the trees and along the surface

of the earth, shaken.

 

Waiting for the passage of too many heavy clouds

And the slow return of the sun that can shed light

On the vines and saplings that will obscure

The oldest and the tallest trees, brought down to earth

by days of rain.

 

 

©cmheuer, April, 2021

 

TWIDDLING MY THUMBS

 

Waiting in the car

Parked on brown winter grass outside a race track stadium,

like thousands of others,

Guided into rows by parking attendants.

An old Honda beside a new Prius, Lexus, and Lincoln.

Engines off and silent.

 

Raceway.  Vaccine written on the Gate 4 Marquee.

Lot D2.  4 Coca Cola signs, bottle shaped,

Each one the side of a box wrapped around a light pole.

Burnt orange roofs on stadium stairs.

Ticket signs and advertisements. 

 

When it was a State Fairground,

Exhibition buildings with cows, sheep, and pigs,

groomed for competition, covered the fields.   

Smaller buildings were lined with home-canned foods

and home-sewn quilts.

Blue, red, or white ribbons were coveted and displayed. 

 

Transcending all were the ferris wheels,

carousels, and bumper cars,

Tents filled with carnival games and shouting barkers,

cotton candy, and corn dogs,

Reflections distorted everything in the House of Mirrors,

While musicians filled open-air stages with music. 

 

Long awaited fall days spent walking

From tent to tent,

From building to building,

Dusty feet and eyes barely blinking

until seated back in the car with eyes closed

Head and shoulder leaning against the car window

For the long trip back home to cow barns and silos.

 

Until a parking attendant used arm and hand signals

To move a parked row into a long, slow-moving queue

Towards a makeshift vaccine dispensary.

 

© cmheuer, 2021