Midheaven
Three days in the woods
without people, I find myself
wanting so badly to tell someone
about the hummingbird
who comes every morning
to suck the orange flowers,
about the iridescence of chain pickerel,
how they look like sunlight
on the Paupack below the falls,
how a luna moth landed
on the pages of my book
like a prayer separated
from its anguish,
about the campfire,
the way flames appear liquid
at their hottest and in the darkest
hour of the night
beyond the synastry of bats
there are more stars
than Greek philosophers
had names for, more
than echoes
of gunfire,
more than all the flax seeds
in the world.
Gulf Stream Magazine 