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:
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.
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