A DISTANT POINT

 

On the horizon of sleep

there is a distant point,

          evasive and unknown,

because it is never remembered

after being found,

 

After a long search

          through blankets tossed and turned,

After mantras recited

          and silent lullabies sung,

After eyes are closed tight

          And breaths taper off,

After sheep are counted,

          the point is untouched,

          while the hands of the clock

                   crawl past midnight.

 

The sunlight strays into the window

          and ends a dream remembered,

          but that distant point found

          after a long, restless struggle

          is still unknown.

 

cmheuer ©12/2022

RUBY-THROATED HUMMINGBIRDS

 

 

It is the sudden movements through the air

     that catch my eagle eyes,

        the wild dart and loop,

           the calligraphy marks,

             sky written and invisible,

     amid midair hovering, feeding, and fighting

     with wings that beat

          thousands of times per minute

            and hum louder 

        than the earth’s quiet murmur.

 

It is the flying jewels, neck feathers,

glistening in the light,

the ruby reds in a vibrant sun,

that draw me into their supernatural memories

of past migrations,

of rich nectars and flowers

along hundreds of miles

between breeding and wintering grounds.

 

It is the heralding of spring and fall,

without pomp and circumstance,

that their appearance and disappearance

foretell with a sharper vision than my eagle eyes

will ever know as I wander from

room to room, window to window,

in search of their beating wings and sword-like beaks

when the flowers blossom and fade. 

 

 

 

cmheuer, © October, 2022

 

 

PINE CONES

 

Scattered across the yard in large numbers,

scales open and seedless,

cast off from high branches,

and dropped to earth,

their prehistoric commands completed.

 

Grounded pine cones wobble as they roll

across the fall’s earthen floors,

a crop for woodpeckers and squirrels,

a reminder of a tree’s past decade,

fallen nurseries of seeds dispersed,

still littering as seasons pass.   

 

Stumbling blocks for feet set forward to clear

 a footpath besieged with

large, broken branches,

                    and split or uprooted trees,

                    fallen remnants of winter storms and

March winds.

 

A fog of heavy, green pollen fills the air,

          obscures the footpath, littered with

                  the rejected and discarded,

the damaged and broken

bygones.

          Too many to stack neatly in a pile,

          Too thick to walk through and ignore,

          Too heavy to push aside and move on.

 

The annual shedding of old things

        to make room for the new

            becomes thunderous

                as the path becomes longer. 

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©cmheuer, 5/2022