Poetry and Writes

Herons (POEM)

Nests in woodlands

Herons stretching their grace

Into the reed stalks and muddy water

Glazed with rain beneath them.

Piping calls, rustles, arcs of rivers

White slivers slanting through the

Beginnings of dusk.

All around me these things

Stir, and in my heart

Thuds a soft, red,

Untouchable reverence.

How does one describe

Such quiet joy? Like a feather

It drifts in and out of my ribs;

Like the tide it pulls and releases

Through my valley'd veins.

The herons turn their heads

On the pedestals of their bodies,

Eyes passing over, never lingering

Upon my foolish skin.

For these birds, they have the secret

Of woodland happiness--and a greater

One they could not slip, nor treasure

Till they brim.