|Branches of the live oak|
Utterly silent in the night,
the long, twisted arm of the live oak
reaches almost to my window.
I know that, in the day,
a red-bird builds her nest there
from bits of Spanish moss,
chirping at each new piece
she reclaims from the tangles.
But deep in the night, nothing stirs.
We are far, far from the world.
The sun has set over all the West,
red and glowing,
the West with its petty arguments,
its power plays, its pissy lies,
the West of the patriarchy,
dying pitifully like the sun.
The West is a vast, big ol’ mistake
that’s sputtered out like a candle flame.
The big ol’ moon moves imperceptibly.
The tree branches cast fantastic shapes
across the ground, yellow and grey.
An owl hoots three times. That’s all.
I gaze out the window,
listening for the sea.
April 7, 2017
|Marsh on Hunting Island|
|Grandmother tree at Ifetayo's house|