Love comes hungry to anyone's hand.
I found the newborn sparrow next to
the tumbled nest on the grass. Bravely

opening its beak. Cats circled, squirrels.
I tried to set the nest right but the wild
birds had fled. The knot of pinfeathers

sat in my hand and spoke. Just because
I've raised it by touch, doesn't mean it
follows. All day it pecks at the tin image of

a faceless bird. It refuses to fly,
though I've opened the door. What
sends us to each other? He and I

had a blue landcape, a village street,
some poems, bread on a plate. Love
was a camera in a doorway, love was

a script, a tin bird. Love was faceless,
even when we'd memorized each other's
lines. Love was hungry, love was faceless,

the sparrow sings, famished, in my hand.

Love Song -Carol Muske-Dukes

A thousand miles apart, yet the same moon shines over us all.

-Su Dongpo

Fire Lily

Though a living cannot be made at art, art makes life worth living. It makes starving, living. It makes worry, it makes trouble, it makes a life that would be barren of everything-living. It brings life to life.

John Sloan

Missed you

Oil Spill

Ok, this oil spill is horrible and will have lasting effects on the future of our world environment. It is a global tragedy and action should be taken to remedy the problem. Why would we create technology that has no fix when it breaks? Stupid. I borrowed this photo from the birdchick blog which has a great post on the spill, check it out here

photo taken by Charlie Riedel on the East Grand Terre Island in Louisiana

Last night I dreamt of him, sitting next to me. After all this time he was there and he wanted me close, tapping my foot with his during some random meeting, sitting near me. I could see everything so clearly as if no time had passed. For a moment I felt alive again.

Face off

All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way.
or if he listened for
some missing one--
not knowing even
that was what he did--
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.
I know that hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

Jane Hirschfield Hope and Love

A little flower for a little day

You are wrong to think I do not miss you.

Still, citizen sparrow, this vulture which you call
Unnatural, let him lumber again to air
Over the rotten office, let him bear
The carrion ballast up, and at the tall

Tip of the sky lie cruising. Then you'll see
That no more beautiful bird is in heaven's height
No wider more placid wings, no watchfuller flight;
He shoulders nature there, the frightfully free,

-From Still, Citizen Sparrow by Richard Wilbur

Corby

Watching a couple of crows
playing around in the woods, swooping
in low after each other, I wonder
if they ever slam into the trees.

...but rarely does a crow
hit a tree, though other, clumsier birds
bang into them all the time, and we say
these birds have not adapted well

to the forest environment.
Frequently stunned, they become
easy prey for the wily fox,
who's learned how to listen

for that snapping of branches
and collapsing of wings,
who knows where to go
and what to do when he gets there.

From The Questions Poems Ask by Lawrence Raab

Vulture time