Beckonings
I've lived a life of simple excitements.
Walked streets where a low branch
struck me in the hair. No obstruction,
a beckoning.
Have heard drops, looking up.
Icicles, for the life of them, struggling
to be what they are, in the sun
melt.
Leaves and water droplets. Hopping
birds, grey as mud. In a perfect world
this hunter after waiting forever lowers
a rifle.
And a deer, fawn beside, munches
chlorophyll. There I am, using past tense
in the first sentence. Knowing it
now.
c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010
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