Artisan, and Ecclesiastical

Artisan

I make this room a countryof flowers, winter demands it,

broken trees, frozen groundspeaking of the grave, a terrible diction

I refuse to learn. It’s fair, I think,to long for what refuses us—

the moss green of new growth, delicateblossoms in balloon or ray shapes.

I make this room a country of petals—the gallica rose in its fuchsia

extravagance, repeat blooming into August.I make this room a country of shelter,

roof and floor a steady pledge from the safe,walls the very symbol of sentinels.

I make this room a country for thosesent away, the one from Wylie Street,

lover of horses and words, and an Irishwriter, his narrow kind face,

a clerk at sixteen, poet forever,and not my sister, one who fast-walks

eight miles around her city a day,not going anywhere. I demand an end

to this cataloguing, this dreaded leave-taking. Instead, I make this room my

country of astringent light, trying to craftout of cold air an enlightening brew,

aiming to create with lamenting words, deepsorrow, an invigorating ragtime tune.

Ecclesiastical

It is only that wild turkeys, single file,make a dark processional through deep snow.

It is not that they represent anything.They go searching for a thing to eat, scratching.

It is something to observe. No harm comesto them—coyote or red-tailed hawk.

But the woman who watches notes their slogfrom east to west, how a subgroup tried

deviation, following the creek, and the onein charge flew at them. Safety where

they circle, peck and bob for seeds, then flap upheavily, ungracefully, to roost in bare

trees. This goes on day following day,and she notes that soon the mating will start,

males parading their full display of giftsas they strut, preen, turn like the Pope in sun.