Poem November 2016
I never said
we weren’t sunk in glittering nature,
until we are able to become something else.
— Mary Oliver
Perches pique a matter of strategic
challenges, this chess game of
poached positions and rotating
flurries of chromatic energy,
as if the flash and dash of feathers
in flight was more about the dance
and not the flush of necessity’s plight . . .
as if we ourselves were not also
in restless rush, breathing out
the flux and plottings of our small
and uncertain profundities.
— Connie Ralston