Fathom Flight
Who but God can parse a chime of wrens,
the tilt and swirl?
Or read the hieroglyphics of the hawk
etched on the sun?
Who speaks the language
of the swallows
and the geese returning?
Who can sing their yearning?
–and who does not start
at the beat of raven wings at night?
First published Vallum New International Poetics
© 2011 Leland James
A Song of Cedars
I am the singer,
singing of cedars
touching the sky,
but not the song
—the song
written in me
before I was born,
the place where the cedars
meet the sky.
First published Vallum New International Poetics
© 2011 Leland James
Aunt Reba
Her hair was thin as thread,
white like chalk and spare.
She kept it best she could.
It seemed she’d spent an extra
hour that night preparing
her charm; her nails long
unpainted ovals brushed
to shine like light opal.
Aunt Reba’s eyes were blue,
gone pale like watered silk,
the color of the graceful shawl
she choose that night to wear.
She had a glass of wine
—quite rare these days, her last--
with our dinner by candlelight.
After the coffee and cake,
the candle—lit by Reba’s
long southern fingers
an effortless hour before--
she extinguished with a breath
so faint the flame resisted
an instant, brightening before
expiring. Then, the first time
ever, she allowed the smoke
from the slender ivory taper
to rise, a whisper of delicate
strings a moment woven
above the wick. The first
time ever in the forty
of her ninety-two years
when I had sat with her
at her table, she did not
lift fingers to lips and tongue,
then squeeze the wick between
forefinger and thumb—I still
hear the sound, recall
the faint smell—saving the candle
Aunt Reba, page two, stanza continues
for another day. The wisp
of white smoke from the candle
rose unrestrained. The next
morning Aunt Reba was gone.
First published, Inside Apples, US and Europe
© 2012 Leland James