A Convening of Feathers

Long winters may shunt the creative, but a scene rich in symbol caught my eye last week.

 

 

A Convening of Feathers

 

Three pheasants on snow and litter under brush.

A crow squawks from their side a jump or two away

with sisters above on lamp and bare branch.

 

Disturbed birds of china retreat by quick feet

then with a call of oriental chime in low flight west.

Black chatter hovers to chase in curious report.

 

Was there any agreement on the nature of late winter?

Or can birds of cross feather ever see the others' light?

I convene with my kind and hope to touch heart.

© 2015 Ardi Keim

Stone Soup

When almost awake it is so clear. But without some kind of hook or ladle, it's gone in a flash. Barely a hint of its nourishing savor.






Stone Soup

I live in both worlds now

and my allegiance is fleeting.

Dream Master, help me. I am spent.

Truth shines like the sun

till it sets without a snapshot.

Misplaced in mental obligation,

habit and memory.

 

I must write it down,

or get enough rest and nourishment.

The morning is fresh, but the canary is free.

No concept of one till another flies through –

like migrating birds to the mechanics

of earth revolving.

 

Truth I know is the anticipation

of stone soup.

Then, after many guests

and hours of cooking,

it's back to the heart

till the words are not mine

yet precious as my lover.

 

 

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© 2013 Ardi Keim