A Carnivore Moment In The Garden

Bamboo bends with the breeze,
Leaves playing lightly as
A fiddle player’s fret hand.
White cat on the fence waits
Bloodthirsty over the burn pile, for a
Field mouse foraging
Under the drying stalks of
Fool’s paradise.
White cat, of
Feral face,
And dead-heart eyes,
Solly high at the feeder, Lip
Laired and dreaming,
White cat
Muscle-stalks away, lithey and
Oiled. Mouse sleeps the sleep of
The paroled;
Bamboo bends.

Herbivores of the Garden Testify

Lippity Hop nips his morning greens,
Ears tall and twitching at supple alert.
To Lippity, a leaf is fare of the gods of
Small creatures.
But Lip was littered boding that he, himself,
Is someone else’s leaf.
Not sure why. It’s confusing,
But there it is.
‘I, Lip, am someone’s leaf.’

Hence the living ears.

Hasn’t made him a cynic, though.
He remains impossibly placid.
Doubt, certainly,
But with benefit-of-the.

Only the back half of Lippity hops.
On a low leaf-hunt,
His forearms reach forth, first left and then right,
Then his rounded back end joins in a concerted
Heave and ho.

Lip’s ears don’t twitch the slightest
When Solomon strafes by, cutting the air.
Not friends, but fellow leaf and sap people.

His ears don’t configure at all
Toward Sir Charles of the Powerline
When Chuck and his shrew scrap
Over nut-gathering,
All-nighters with the guys – it’s the pressure.

Lip knows his fellows.

He does go brown-gray motionless,
At the juttering growl of a jake brake
On I-65.
Hits him in the solar plexus,

Even he has eternity in his bones.

Solomon Hovertail: Life of a Warrior

Solomon Hovertail,
I’ve watched you all summer,
Perplexed at the warrior
Life of a hummer.

Solomon Hovertail,
Looking for grace,
Fights with the air
Just to occupy space.

Solomon Hovertail,
Dines on the wing,
His brother won’t countenance
Solomon king.

Even when brother
Isn’t close by,
Solly’s alert,
As a Cold War spy.

In blood, the brothers
Have sworn to a treaty,
“I’ll die before letting
You eat at the feeder.”

Hot Attic Dry

This deep in August,
Cicadas go long,
Run the length of the field
With their each-other song.

Zinnias on stalks,
With defeat in their eye,
Brown upward in place
Going hot-attic dry.

The hawk, he is hungry;
The squirrel hops it nimble
Down his power line highway,
A risk, a life-gamble.

Only the butterflies
Haven’t a care.
Their wings drink abundance
From oven-hot air.

Dew On The Screen

Dew pearls on the screen,
Heaven’s tears, call me to
Repent, not to love
Misery and verdict deserved,
But because
After tears,
Through tears,
Are the Arms!
Our flesh is cherished,
Caressed, by
The Hands that scooped up
Earth and impregnated it
With Himself.
Creation and incarnation
Are our sweet flesh, ripe peaches,
August-morning sun burns dawn mist
Away, and dew on the screen
Parches within,
Silently, invisibly,
Lost in His hug.
Matthew 5: 4

Honey From The Rock

Unaware, I came early to the glory porch.
Crepe myrtle, fucsia-headed, mopping
The fence, and the hummer
Darting, sipping at the sugar water spout.
Breathless with humidity and
Impending Blessing.
The Word spoke with a smile, and grace
Broke over my head:
“With honey from the rock I would satisfy you.”
Today! Yes, today, He had this waiting for me.
He laughed aloud at my gasp.
Only He could orchestrate the
Appointed day for
Summer reunions, old friends,
Long calendared,
To fall on the eve of
Honey promised
To the holy in
My morning reading.
I grew up on
Honey Rock Farm.
Had the man who built that brown frame home,
Who planted Sweet Olive near the back deck, and
Tucked it all up next to an oak-ringed field,
And named it Honey Rock,
Had he feasted on an impossible honey
That came, how on earth, from a rock?
Had Honey Rock come from his awe of a
Cleft in a Rock pouring clover’s wine,
Sweet and fine?
And when life in those walls had a rock’s hard edge,
When sorrow and worry
Fell like a stone on the heart,
Was there nectar to be sipped?
And could he have ever guessed how
That farm’s name would bring
Back-porch awe
Years and miles away,
Its syrup just now being sampled on the tongue?
Yes, and yes!
Psalm 81: 16

Allison Sieg, Paulette DuBose, Leslie Smith Milam – July 18, 2019


Last back porch morning
Before the mountains call me out,
And the finches are back on
The zinnias. And oh what marvel!
I would have thought that
Zinnias themselves
Are all the color in this world,
And then the finch – a lemon
In the berry sherbets, a busy
Little page in his lord’s livery,
Palette completer,
Dominion bearer.