The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Anne Harding Woodworth

CROWS & OAKS

Through glass and mullions,
beside a sash of weights and ropes,
I see a cloud, a gauze of air
before it rises from the woods.
I think I see the crows,
phantom-wooers sweeping now
between the dark-veiled oaks
that leafless float their limbs.
Is this a trick of eye, trompe-l'oeil,
this looking into blurring fog
that separates--no, more, that segregates--
the languages and hemispheres?
Or are there really crows and oaks?
And do I really hear the harsh and ligneous sounds?
Is anyone out there watching me
beside this sash of weights and ropes?
No certainty of counterpoise
on either side of transparency.


IVY POISON IVY ON OUR CYCLONE FENCE

Vines move among diamonds anodized,
choke each other at times,
at times form the phalanx as if to barricade and rub,
as if to create heat that never ignites
because the smell of honeysuckle keeps moist and cool
the place where shadows do not warn
but hint at patterns of ill will,
and there's our itching, pain, and red the welts.
Ringed raccoons finger trash lids,
cause trauma to the crow poor crow,
who warns his own kind
of intrusion and stranglehold.


LUCKY BLACKBIRD OF THE KIRBY MOOR B&B