Alert
Here in this winter-wet desert,
this high plateau time,
source of the growing year,
with sand emerging
everywhere under
ghosts of gone ice sheets,
I walk out,
scarf flying
like a prayer flag,
to find what is new
and newly returned.
In my ears,
breezes and birdsound.
In my nose,
raw earth thawing.
In the corner
of my eye,
caught on the edge
of the concrete street,
a tiny silver airplane,
a charm.
I pick it up,
turn over its fleet
and mysterious edges
in the thin sunlight,
and pocket it
like a true story.
Walking back uphill,
toward my house,
I begin to hum,
then find something else
in my mouth—
voiced vowels
and edges of words
linked together
the way flowing ink
joins Devanagari script—
my own song,
a new one,
winging me home again.
Leslie Schultz
Welcome to a new National Poetry Month!
Are any of you also embarked on this writing-one-new-poem-each-day journey? If so, let me know–I salute you! If not, thank you for taking a look at my own discoveries over the next thirty days. LESLIE