Esther Sadoff
November
Morning light rises and falls
like a boat careening on water,
settling into the hummocks
and valleys of waves,
into the sudden stillness
where the sun performs
its balancing act,
dispersing mist into crispness.
Outside, the crackling chirr
of birds awakening.
I open the blinds to brittle
cold, rusted street signs,
hardening branches.
There is no water’s surface
to reflect pink now blue
as we sail into day,
no triangle of soft sunrise
trailing the stern as we glide.
No undertow of moving silence,
no renewing depths of sea.
The trees flex in the wind.
The trees tighten their roots.
Looking Away
I look sidelong at the hummingbird,
my view feathered by half shut eyes
as it carries its house of delicate bones, the tip
of its tongue sipping from each flower’s crown.
I avert my eyes from the bevy of gray rabbits
bedded under the clover thatch,
from a young buck on the graveled path
proudly decked in spring regalia.
I used to think I could make myself invisible
by looking away, a skill more trusted than tried.
I feared my eyes would tamp down that wildness,
startle the smallest scheme of finch or frog.
I look away from the window pane, smeared gray
with waves of rain, only glance at the cardinals
dallying amongst spokes of grass, as if not examining
too closely could make such goodness last.