Volume 12, 2012

Opening the Summer House

B.A. St. Andrews

Sun-drenched again and one
with the universe I am
sweeping this kitchen singing
at the top and bottom of
essentially tuneless lungs.

On the porch I contemplate
a cormorant precariously balanced
atop sails, wings outstretched
frail as a purple Jesus
steadying for nails.

Being neither bird nor sacred
boy, I tremble in joy if not
redemption and scrub down
doomsday thoughts and dogmas
of denial. For a precious fortnight

sin itself is not on trial. In
beguiling heat I perceive myself
a Deity and so decree; humans
need atone for nothing.
Cardinal-hatted hollyhocks agree.

My life plies with waves that
leap like ballerinas on the jetty,
spinning diaphanous skirts of
foam. Gull, cod, cloud, plover:
everything dances or hovers.

Crescendo, decrescendo, Triton
blasts sea-symphonies against
stone. Sunbeams clap topaz
hands while girls plant shells
like dreams in amber sand.

I am planting, too. Come
high tide and harvest moon
Love itself may slide
inside my cave of dreams,
mystic and wild as a silkie.

Alive with light I am
pounded thin as a compact disc
by sound; I am a silver filament
humming in August heat, a one
woman network of good news.

All my links and lines are
open. When I take the airwaves,
Mother Nature has Her say.
Pipers promise “Yes!”
South winds murmur “Stay!”

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