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ovenbird
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And the day has slipped
from the womb of the year
with its new mouth wide,
breath fogging the mirror
of the morning,
body damp with afterbirth.
Perhaps better
if it had been born still,
this cloven thing,
its name uncertain. Lamb
or Lucifer,
we will all discover soon enough
what story will be told…
but the dawn’s first voice
brings stolen words
and uncertain omens,
inauspicious murmurings.
Foghorns blare their gloomy warning.
The coyotes hunt
in the marshland.
You will light the signal fire
and I will build my own,
coaxing flames from December’s
dying wreath
of juniper and cedar.
As the lingering moon
licks her newborn clean
and watches it stagger
to its unsettled feet,
we sing a song of intrepid hope,
hands raised to a reddening sky.
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260101
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