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

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