Birch trees downed
by beavers or storms
lay their heads in slow
water. Sparrows swarminto the tallest
locust; spill down
again, in a swell
of sound.The rocky bank
is patched with snow.
An ice floe rolls
in the undertow.My heart calls out
to something unknown,
an owl in its nest
of sticks and bones.
I wrote this some time ago, and continue to be uncertain about it. I rarely write in rhyme (unless I’m working in form) but that is how this one came.
Comments welcome.
Hi,
The rhyme didn’t really jump out at me until the third verse.
Feel free to take this suggestion with a pinch of your favourite spice, but ‘My heart’ to me is not specific enough, or perhaps it contains too many other romantic connotations that sits a little uneasily with the rest of this work.
Since this is also the only instance where the speaker appears, it requires a light tread around all that nature.
Anyway, just my 2c worth.
Thanks, Ivy. I think you are right about “heart”.
I wonder — “soul”, maybe . . .
Maybe not.
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