Sonoran Desert: Winter ‘09

A full moon in the birdbath, a perfect circle of ice blunting sparrow beaks. Cold stings the first knuckle of each finger breaking small pieces of bread from a slice now half its original size. I laugh out loud at the morning headlines, "St. Francis of Tucson, Bread Man to the birds, found wanting for nothing ever again, a freeze in the cactus garden of the Tucson basin."


a plum, happy lungs, a radio in touch

Frank is . . .

a hungry ghost gripping the wheel
old man saguaro, the hum of blood, the sun, a glow
pajama sleeves, morning's radiance, unspeakable things
the compass in my pocket, whatever
the wheel, fallen leaves

-- Frank Parker

1 comment:

danika / openchannel said...

Yay, Frank these are lovely, as always. Hi! Long time, eh? Life got hold of me and yanked me around for a while. now I'm back. :-)

"my footsteps confess
no special talent

one sneaker follows the other
into a brilliant make believe I know I know"

love yr voice.