buttercup

knowing you already have
the company of stones,
and wanting a remembrance
less weighty,
I brought to you
the single beam
of a wild buttercup
plucked from among
its golden brothers,
drifting even now
unfettered in the field

where nearby children
may be heard shrieking
in play with each other
and with the barking dog
under the watchful eyes
of a woman content
that they will be tired
after this brilliant-skied
afternoon frolic

and even nearer,
the cedar the artists
come to paint holds
the newest fledglings close
until early one morning
and quite unexpectedly,
it will dawn on them
that they are the sky-born
and their falling
will become instead
their glorious flying

and down the street,
the runners run
past the park where
I imagine you stopped
to watch the swallows
plummet at dusk,
enthralled by just what
hollow bones can do –
and wandered back home
to with relish write
of growing wings

© Sarah Whiteley

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shameless cross-post

Because I can. And because I am in love with this picture, which is one of a series I took and plan to frame and hang on the walls. If I were a good little poet, I’d come up with a companion piece, but sometimes the picture is the poem.

For those of you who maybe haven’t clicked over to my photo blog before, clicking the photo above will take you there. Like magic. You should go – really. Especially if you like crows. And dogs. And poking fun at the amateur photographer.

this safety of glass

this morning
a dust-white moth
flittered impervious
to improbability
precarious outside the window
twenty-seven floors up
and I, more unsettled than he,
held how quick the rise to love
how equally impervious
and fragile as moths
these improbable elevations
it is nothing less
and it is so much more
than flinging oneself beyond
this safety of glass

© Sarah Whiteley