USA

cabotrabbit@futura.net

CONSCIOUS ACTS

Black wings come scolding,
invade my space
as though it is theirs.
Demanding my removal,
they strafe the lone pavilion
where I sit,
in no way invading their space.

I ignore their spurious ways,
intent on staying.
Two wings become four become more.

In indignation, I rise
and in a fury of outbursts
serve notice
I have no plans to leave.
In skirmish after skirmish,
we wage our war
until the rock I hurl
sends one faltering crow
plummeting from the treetops,
unconscious.

SOLAR HEAT

Summer bakes for me potatoes
in sandy soil
as blazing sun beats down
on withered vines.
My meal is prepared at harvest,
tender skins and ripe.

I fill baskets with this year's yield
and spread them out to dry.
At dusk, I remove the mud
and stagger my harvest
on vented trays
I lay atop the washer.
Hours later, still radiating warmth,
the red skins sleep in peace.

In winter, instead of blankets,
I will curl beneath potatoes
for a long night's sleep
and know the feel of summer
beneath falling snow.

NEW AMONG CACTUS

In bare feet,
you dodge scorpions
that dart among desert cactus.
This is, for you,
a new beginning,
leaving behind winter ice storms
and raging floods
that follow springtime thaws.

In this space,
you will put to rest
seasons of pneumonia.
The hot, dry air you breathe
will be no less than healing.

Someone new
will have to carry
the valley torch
to light the way
for those who follow.
It's someone else's turn
to be the cement
to glue the loosely-knit
together.

© All Copyright, Harding Stedler.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.