BIRD ON THE WING

Cloudy days appear bereft of shadows,

Smudged castoffs that tell time,

Litter the forest floor, and

Leave patterns adrift.

Shade eclipses as much earth as

There are objects on it to capture sunlight

And block it from revealing another side.

All matter loses detail and dons silhouettes,

Larger and more abstract than the original,

They curl up and wrap around like a gray-black fur.

Repeating shadows seem like objects themselves,

Long translucent columns shed by the loblollies at dawn

Break apart the early light and stretch toward the west,

Like fingers spread out to touch the earth

To sense its round shape and carry a message

For each root, limb, branch, and needle

There must be signs of time for

The grip of the sun has a firm hold.

There is a sudden burst of shadow that

Trails across the moss, dead leaves and fallen pine needles,

And I know that it is a bird on the wing,

And I know that I saw a shadow of the past,

That was a shadow of the clouds.

 © cmheuer, 2013

FIRST LIGHT

Time changed and shifted the

first light back, exposing dark

morning’s wet film

and there were the steps across

the leaves broken from the limbs

and shattered along the path

hidden between the

red-tipped sugar maples.

© cmheuer, 2013

WAITING FOR A METEOR

Crushed pieces of stone barely displace insect sounds,

As gravel sheds each step toward the field--

In the dark, footprints are useless--and

Trees slide out of view on the ink-black side of the earth.

Enlarged eyes harvest what they can: 

A waning crescent moon, star specks, and

Memorized scenes of grass blades and weeds

Covering a hillock and leading down

To a small pond, no bigger than a pig’s wallow.

The wall of char-black trees encircles the mound,

Blots out low-horizon stars and creates a ragged edge

Around the hill’s center as eyes dissolve without glowing, 

One particle at a time, into the blinding night,

Numbing cold and senseless void focused above

Like a vignette from a Holga lens.

While the earth pulls at one’s flesh drowned in a dark flood

That leaves only star spatters to read on the ceiling and

Suspends the weight of a timepiece buckled around the wrist,

An unwound remnant no longer ticking--

The sounds of insects vibrate and cross the sky as a stone

Etches a pale line of light. 

© cmheuer, 2013

THE ORIGINAL DEBATE

If most of the leaves have fallen,

heavy clouds and freezing temperatures

can change the landscape

as if the original debate

were between the leaves’ fall

and the snow’s fall

adds up to

another winter slow to rise

on the horizon

another dawn slow to

echo yesterday’s call

of the fall’s crow

where in the streaks of the

early morning’s sun there is

the semblance of a sentence

no more than the noise of a caterwaul unleashed and

run at full throttle over a

stone surface lined with

age to point in one

direction.

© cmheuer, 2013

WHEN THE COLD COATS EACH TWIG

Who brings in the dog when the cold coats each twig?

Who promises a clear view from the mountain’s crest?

Unsmeared, proportioned

Glimpse of a better day held

Back because whose vision

Bifocal or trifocal

Can make out a single

Symbol among the day’s

Ort, scraped to the side

Of a plate and tossed out

The door, down the steps,

And along the mole dug

Earth caved in from the dog’s foot.

STORM II

As if the first storm had not been

An anomaly, as if the snow’s depth

Had not stopped the traffic’s flow,

As ice can interrupt a river’s current,

The second storm seems common-place,

A photographer’s often-used backdrop,

Along the road, in a parking lot,

A cold scene,

A cup’s hot water spilled

Freezes before it falls,

As breath is frozen before the eyes,

As a glance is frozen by the

Rapid shutter speed

Of the eyes' lids,

There is awareness, a sense,

Of the other’s quickened step,

Of the eyes’ sidelong focus,

 Of the silent stand,

As the clouds thin

And the inch by inch accretion

Is stopped, the retransformation

Complete, as may

Any eye’s sight repeated

Often enough leaves no more than

A whisper, fragile in the warmer air,

Dissolves too in the windy gusts

Of the early morning, scattered

The hint of knowledge barely

Discernible without the fingers’

Wide spread across the knee,

The profile paler in lean light,

Or so one would think, as

Certain as a snow’s fall and melt,

Would not the mind’s play,

Set in a common day’s scene,

Fade each time it is repeated,

Or could one brush stroke laid

Over the last sharpen the hue,

Suggest what is hidden,

Lead the restorer

Deeper for the repeated fall.

© Christina Heuer, 2013

THE EARLY MORNING'S CHILL

Awakened in the dark by a

subtle shift in the 2 x 4’s

studded brace and beam,

a crow’s caw, or the memory of

his voice hummed, whispered,

and eased its way through the

shadows like the light touch

of his hand wanted, but

imagined because

there is an audience,

his lined palm drawn down

her back turned away from

the early morning’s chill

before the dark evening’s

song could shatter,

a bare foot touched the

hard wood floor and began

its step-by-step approach

towards the sun not yet

risen might hear a poet’s

plea and not rise

upon a room without a sound

of more than one breath,

without a sound of more

than one set of steps,

or the respiration of

a plant, or the

lifted paw of an old pet

could have obscured

the quiet voice wrapped

the soles of her feet and

cushioned the early morning’s

steps

© cmheuer, 2013