New Mexico

Helpless

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

This is the third day
I have crossed the shady bridge
connecting woodland road to freeway,
and the squirrel is still there. 

Its white belly bloated skyward,
rodent mouth agape with
bucked teeth displayed, 
crippled foot poked with bones
emerging from fur cover.

 If I was home, I would bury the body.
Place what was left in shallow grave,
say a word of passing, but I am not home. 

I am a thousand miles from the comforts I know.
I am shovelless and I mourn that which I cannot change
as I watch the rot, helpless to the decay. 

I am observer only,
unable to partake 

to act
to initiate change 

unable to do more than witness.

It is not unlike the tragedy that
flashes our screens relentlessly,
the yelps from Mother Earth as she
floods and shakes and burns to the
hate and greed that continues to
overwhelm the hearts of men.

The differences we are told we can
make are so small, so fragile, and so
easily undone. They seem near nonexistent and,
like caring about a dead squirrel on the side of the road,
do not change anything.

I am helpless
to do anything more than watch
as our world, once alive and
strong and beautiful,

continues to decompose.  

 

 

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In praise of silence

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

It is easy to forget
the sound of one’s voice.

The peaceful practice
of silence and loss can add up to

forgetfulness and leave the mind to wonder
if anything is worth saying at all.

Consider the desire to end the silence;
to create clear and concrete language.

Do you dare
cause a ripple?

Practice  conversation, not just in mind,
but with tongue and air and the movement of lips.

And what relief, what glory, to speak,
to shatter silence with those well-chosen words.

But the more one speaks,
the more often one forgets what was said,

and there is always need for repetition depending
on who is around to hear.

Also, our message is so often lost,
what initiated that long ago lure of speech soon dissipates.

It is then a time to recall the peace of silence
and the ease of observer,

and once again, allow lips to seal and listen
to the mumbled murmur of the morning rain.

 

 

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In the Morning,

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I am going to take my time
crawling to consciousness.

I am going to linger in bed
grasping for silvery dreams,
flirting with the gray light
of dawn outside window.

In the morning, I will allow
myself to fill my lungs with air
and follow my breaths.

I will leisure in sleep,

a curling cat in a cut
of sunshine on carpeted floor,

the last chill of morning chased

from my skin.

I will allow my body to find

its own movement and rhythm.

I will listen to the silence.

In the morning,
before the sun is too high
and the air too cloudy,
I will wander till I reach the river.

Maybe I’ll see the sunflowers again,
that little grove on the north side of the freeway.
Perhaps it will break me to tears
like it did that one day last summer.

Perhaps it will conjure
a release I didn’t know
I was resisting.

 

 

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