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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds
In every weather
Had dropped every feather
The weight sometimes
Of all those why's
A ton of lead
Or a ton of words unsaid
Down on a feathered bed
The weight belies
The width of squawks
When the birds are dead
And they sing remembering
When a ton of song
Weighed the same as
Fly away Autumns
Flu away fall
Feather or not
Bird at all.

Stephen Kirin

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Shaping the Landscape

  I am enclosed under a canopy of overhanging shade, where majestic trees rustle in dappled sunlight.  I am surrounded by shapes, by twisted fronds  of birds’ nest ferns and leaf spikes that  thrust sharply upwards against the light.   A spring bubbles through cushions  of moss. Dark green waters trail  water lilies; water boatmen  judder across the surface of the pond. Softness,  sharpness, textured and structured, mingle together,  cradling me in  the shelter of their arms.   Julia Duke  
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