The warm wind,
and I bought irises and daffodils—
spring is early.
The trees have all half-lost their blooms,
but I am pink with joy.
The wind’s low sigh
as it eases across the
the roofless silo.
The breeze is so soft
that I listen
breathless
July in Kansas
the back seat of a gray Ford
hot as fireworks
One purple flower—
the wasp and the butterfly
take turns
The weather
warm and wet and waiting
for the storm…
After the rain:
I inhale
air as warm and wet as breath.
Summer night:
the cicada rattles on
keeping no secrets.
Deep grass:
butterflies everywhere
bright as autumn leaves.
The lake thick with leaves and sluggish,
So the ducks sleep in the grass.
Did I see
the bird in the leafless tree
before I wrote it down?
Calm, wet morning—
the sound of sparrow-wings
in the hedge
A tap on the window:
a moth
on this cold autumn night.
The moonless sky
is sharp with wind:
winter, so close.
The cricket’s voice
slow with cold
and alone
scraping the windshield
white with surprise
water startled into frost
Snowy night—
even the cops
spin three-sixties.
Cold dawn—
the steam whistle
coughs a white cloud.
The morning’s first whistle
shocks the shivering air.
By the road,
a black cat walks
on dirty snow
Winter:
two crows
picking at the empty corn field
Winter night—
under the blankets
the cat purrs
Winter dawn—
the chickadee’s two notes:
“I’m cold.”
Snowy dawn—
The chickadee’s two notes:
“Feed me.”
Snowy day:
the hungry squirrels
come close.
Black birds
on a telephone wire
spaced out like beads
Black bird at the top
of a winter-bare tree—
the wind is colder,
but the view is good
© 2007 Kij Johnson