USA

KALynch@aol.com

THE HARD SEASON

Rain-glutted, the stream
splays to the base
of the retaining wall.

Good. Now you have reason
to pray. Of all the birds
watching from winter-stripped

trees, vultures
are kindest, killing
nothing. This is a true

measure of things.
Don't hold back now, have
chocolate, throw extra

kindling on, even though
skies urge cover & hoarding.
When mice pitter in

for crumbs, compliment
their small feet and fitting
ways. When your mouth

houses a curse, swallow,
think how you once
had no words at all

yet managed
your hungers. Everything
that comes, passes.

Everything that passes
rakes its fingers through
and passes.

(Published in POETRY)

WINDOW SEAT

Two hang-ups in one morning:
Rings. Answer. Then alert silence:
someone saying nothing.

The bodies of the hills
spread before me. Fog holds high
above them. Flocks of starlings
rise and settle. Last night
a girl in a distant city "saved her life
by playing dead" after the first stab.
Two men took turns. Filmed it.

Weather page says a.m. overcast.
Our small town Crime Report seems
almost sweet: two bicycles stolen
this week. One disturbance
of peace. Some false alarms.

House finches flirt on electric wires.
A jet angles upward, disappears.
The pleasure of the word
vector crosses my mind.

So much to accommodate: The sky's
incremental shifts. Hills hiding
their upheavals. Ground letting go
its vapors. A prediction sun
will break through.
That girl. Those men.

I love my life. My wild luck.
Even the phone and its silences.
The newspaper's
thin black columns.
My own bare hands.

printed in The Midwest Quarterly

© All Copyright, Kathleen Lynch.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.