................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Kenneth P. Gurney.............
Crow Girl
She sits in her dark longing,
waits,
beautiful hair under tangled brush strokes.
Mad
at a rookish boy on the front porch,
in love,
she exhumes the weight of the world.
A sweet bird,
she sings a starless midnight into
forgetfulness.
Played out, her formless shadow discards
wings,
which she unmistakably dons,
flies
into the bare face of his crescent
moonrise.
Parent
The kids come back
with a basket of dried
creek stones.
"These are skipping stones,"
Nyssa tells me. "I'll use mine
to skip third grade."
At that instant,
a lark's song adds emphasis.
The children's voices
ripple like the creek
that empties into the river
as, at once, the others tell me
how they'll use their stones.
I know their lives flow by me
and my best hug
holds only a little water.
They set the basket down
and play chase games,
stay clear of the laundry line.
As I set my tea down,
the lark's song clarifies:
I am the riverbed-
we shape each other's course.
While I Work This Out
The nest is not as empty
as it appears
to the naked eye
in December's light.
Over there by the stream,
is the rock where I prefer to sit
when tusseling a thought
out of the ground,
like a robin with a worm.
Don't worry that I am
six miles from the nearest road
and the only shelter
is the pine boughs
off the snowy trail.
This is my house,
this mountainside,
where the shifting patterns
of light and shadow
net my soul.
I love too much
to tear my world apart,
like a chick hatching,
its expectant mother
in flight.
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