FEATURED: Instruction on Lasting and Other Poems
by Jenna Wysong Filbrun
INSTRUCTION ON LASTING
There are days hope
only aches in my throat
and takes me out to pace
among the towering trees
in the tender grass.
The trill of presence
passes through the mouths
of tree frogs and the beaks of birds.
The morning sun carries joy into the day.
The trees reach their stark arms
into the stream of it.
A deer crunches through the brush
in the cloud of her breath.
She steps staccato,
then bounds the field in silent flight.
A dandelion orb glows with frost in the light
to fill the mouth of the finch
who comes to gather its seeds
in a beak bouquet of cotton.
I want to soften like a seed
in the earth, twine like a root
in the ground, reach like a vine,
turn like a leaf, break
into oneness like an old tree.
I want the world
to change
me.
DEAD WEIGHT?
Where the prayers were,
is an emptiness that swallows.
Under that, a fire.
Then a heavy stone
I carry everywhere.
Ascending the mountain,
hummingbirds zing
to the stone’s flame-red hue
the way they hover
before each fiery fold
of the paintbrush petals
to drink.
The red-orange flower blooms
among the rocks on the hill
and does not need to feel anything
to know what is true.
PILEATED WOODPECKERS
Brown grass half-buried
in white cloud.
Moon slinking through sky
inching toward blue.
Tree tips just turning
orange and red, still
as dancers on stage
before the music starts.
A shrill rattle erupts
eerie over the fog,
like the deep clench
of loneliness
spoken out loud.
And listen.
Across the field,
loneliness answers.