I hear voices: snowmelt whispering, murmuring, sighing, gurgling a hundred ways at once. Up in the newly bare field, a turkey gobbles.


  1. Thaw

    If I were a brook I would unwind
    like a spool in the sun, shake my green
    maracas with sequined stones.

    If I were a beet in the soil I’d pulse
    like a heart, pull myself out
    of my muddy shroud.

    If I were a bowl of new
    steamed rice I’d curl fringes of steam
    and float a grateful face above it.

    All over the newly bare field, melting
    voices– whispering, murmuring, sighing
    and gurgling a hundred ways at once.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    02 18 2011

  2. February in Chennai

    Faint like the heart beat of a fetus
    nascent in prenatal slumber
    lies the summer miles below the earth
    murmuring and sighing.

    1. Typed my url wrong in my earlier response. Sorry.

      1. Corrected. Thanks for helping us to picture February in south India. Wonderful image.

    2. Powerful figures of language. ” Faint heart beat….lies summer…murmuring and sighing…” Poetry. Will read more from your blog.

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