Dawn – Here




I know this spell
of silence
will be broken.

Small songs.
Sparrow, wren, finch.

Inverted nuthatch
humming as he beak-tests
bark, cycles his first
promising
light-bathed branch.








Scuppernong Grapes




Ten thousand orbs of summer, against
a cobalt sky. The arbor, faded white,
blisters in the sun.

Gray wood, finger-sized holes bored by
carpenter bees, square joints wired by curling
green vines and hand-sized leaves clutch

wrinkled fruit suspended over me. Brickled
combs leak spun-honey drops growing large
on the surface of wild purple skins.

The bees work again, and again, tend each
cluster as the hot glare burns a memento
into me at age nine.

Today’s glare shines just like that, wakes
the arbor in decay, bees buzzing honey over
grapes – great hive. Tangle distills viscous

drams – in harsh dazzle over grapes. Terrible
how light seeks out sweetness. Nearly boils
the fruit as it bursts in our tender mouths.