Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Call of the Sandhill Crane

I wade through the ice gray

stillness and wonder if this

is what artic twilight without

end is like, waiting for them

to return. Waiting

for them to sing their overture,

sweet serenade from heaven

at the edge of dawn. Weeks pass.

A few scatterings of earth's sole

star opens the eyes of March

heavy with snow. A single, faint,

distinct melody caresses my ears.

I rush to pull up the pane,

quieting again to listen, studying

the death white sky through

dormant branches. The call resounds.

And at last I see my feathered

harbinger of spring flying solitaire,

spirit-filled, at peace.

Copyright 2009 by Cindy Parker

The Gift

What is this sphere

I peer into?

And do I dare?

And in feigning boldness

do I need so much

to know? 

If by chance I did,

would I instead

in weakness

and in trembling stop

the living -- through

each and every color

that exists --

stop the living

for each and every



Copyright 2009 by Cindy Parker

Ode to Poets

The ginkgoes are spilling their gold

onto the downtown walkways,

in timing with the wind


like butterflies in the bind.

Must they all share the same fate?

It is the season, in cadence


with the nature of things

to be. Their words are written

in their veins. Bleed them


and they die. It will cause

your soul to rot. Let the wind

settle them where it will.


Let the gold of eons fall into every

crevice, every gap, every chasm

that exists.
Copyright 2009 by Cindy Parker


The chimney swifts are here.

Soundless as they soar, what

beautiful silence speak

their wings, exquisite

ashes of the stars. Sunless

as the summer forest at night,

too detached it seems for

the city. So much resonance

escapes us.

Copyright 2009 by Cindy Parker