The landscape conforms to the snowbird’s body plan: gray above, white below. Feathery puffs wherever a bird lands on a snowy branch.
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The landscape conforms to the snowbird’s body plan: gray above, white below. Feathery puffs wherever a bird lands on a snowy branch.
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Quicksilver
“My Lord, in your fair face I see all things/
That in this life I hardly can relate.
So many a time to God’s abode it brings
My soul with all its body’s harmful weight.”
~ Michaelangelo Buonarotti
Water is thin, honey thick; mercury
spilled from a glass thermometer rolls
in beads across the wooden floor.
It isn’t the nautilus but the sea
that spirals into the ear, still
hoping to be claimed by land.
Long ago, temples were laid
to mirror the human form– altar
and crossing, nave and vestibule,
impossibly soaring dome. How to catch
at certain hours, the late gold light
that matches with interiors,
before flickering into softer dark?
Landscape too conforms
to the snowbird’s body plan–
Gray above, white below; feathery puffs
wherever a bird lands on a snowy branch.
If only I knew how to tread more lightly
on these powdered paths– our steps
break the surface that holds and yields;
sink deeper as we ascend the hill.
~ Luisa A. Igloria
01 08 2011
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Dave– please remove the slash at the end of the first line of my epigraph. Thanks, Luisa
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