late afternoon, sky reduced itself
crystal, cold. Overhead, almost
as high as a jet,
lone crow wrote "goodnight"
upon this blush, going home.
Frozen on my booted feet,
I leaned my ear into the white noise, commuter
traffic, compressors of the grocery store
across the drainage ditch. I reached for the blank space
between plane and contrail.
I teased solitary low note's thread of passage
from all that noise. Moon watched me, listened. Aloft
in a strange neighborhood, that 3/4 flat
face shone a cliche of new coin, thick/translucent.
A paradox. Should I survive coming night's adventures
I will notice
sun shines silver, too, these mornings.
How did it move to that odd corner ?
I've never seen it there. A phoebe will
beckon, summer-song. Perhaps he hatched
July past. I blink. Trees remain nude.
In spite of his spell, I cannot unknow:
winter creeps stealthy-footed toward
me. My sheets on the line capture this promise's
perfume. Soon, blind blunder-moths, all rainbows
and white, will dither in the wind like crystal
dervishes. Should I survive daylight's adventures
I will marvel when they touch my windowpane,
antics visible in darkness, when they flutter
through streetlamp's pall. Grab my macro lens too late.
A drip sliding down. As are we. As are we.
Rachael Z. Ikins grew up wandering the woods and fields and lakeshores of the Fingerlakes region. While searching for mushrooms and the faeries that dwell beneath them, Rachael discovered the poet within. She is releasing her fourth chapbook of prize winning poetry this month. She lives in a balcony apartment with rafts of house plants or lights blooming from its railing depending on the time of year. She travels more often than she used to, this time to read from her collected works in a castle in Ireland. For one who writes of dragons this seems fitting indeed. Rachael is also an accomplished visual artist. Her works are currently displayed throughout CNY galleries. For more about her, find her on Facebook and Twitter and at www.rachaelikins.com