Sunday April 10, 2011

Fog and the sound of water rushing in the ditches, woodpeckers of every caliber. The thermometer says cold, but somehow the air feels warm.

3 Comments


  1. Poem of Wood and Water

    *”Chop wood, carry water.”*

    Fog and the sound of rushing water; in the canopy,
    woodpeckers of every caliber.

    The word *caliber*, meaning a mold
    in which bullets were cast, to match

    the diameter of the gun barrel. Meaning
    some standard against which one allows

    for what is yet to come. And yet
    their rapid articulation in the trees

    is the sound of uncountable variation.
    My heart too is wood, rich with the fusillade

    of years. What to do, what to do?
    I wash the clothes, I fold the towels.

    I sprinkle green crystals and scour
    the bottom of the tub. I change the coffee filter.

    I measure out three cups of rice.
    The thermometer says cold, but the air says warm.

    The brew in the cup says bitter, but the tongue–
    the tongue wants to find its way to honey.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 10 2011


  2. Spring Comes Home

    Fog and the sound of water in ditches.
    A flicker stitching her call on the sky.
    Spring comes home in the morning like a drunken wife
    you were afraid was not coming home at all.


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