Bethany Reid ----- four poems

Sprung

Slick new leaves and sticky blossoms scattered,
a world that aches to be born, tremor

of birth pangs, of wind drawing down
the tops of the trees, spattering of hail,

windshield wipers like a metronome,
and life more and more like that, your hands

fumbling at the keys, but what keys –
the music scattered, one wrong note after another.

My Father, Growing Wings                                             


It began in August
on a white table in the ICU—

but all through our wet autumn
it continued, the roots

of his wings struggling, digging
their way into muddy earth.

So much work to support
so much beauty, like men starved

and beaten to build the cathedral
at Chartres. Now it is winter

and my father’s wings wrap sinew
and tendon deep into my vital organs,

my tenebrous heart. I would have
my father back, wingless,

without sails to trim. I would keep him
grounded, untouched by any grace

save that of my own wishing, no halo,
no harp, his cracked bucket

of a voice still unable to carry
a tune.  I know that you hear it,

as I do, that whisper
brushing against your ear—

it’s the sound of wings fledging,
it’s the sound of your loved ones,

practicing to fly away.

The Kingdom of Heaven                                                  


The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed,
so Jesus says in the Gospels.
John of Patmos remembered “kingdom,”

and had a vision of gold beaten so thin

it was transparent, gates
made of tremendous pearls, buildings

layered with jasper and emerald, sapphire,
chalcedony. The mustard seed is very small,
but planted and nourished, it grows

into a tree so large all the birds of the air

nest in its branches. In the flutter
of bird wings, John saw angels.

This morning, outside my patio door,
a housefinch lights in the rhododendron,
his rosy head the same color as dawn.

In the vine maple, a flock of nuthatches are warbling

their own gospel. Somewhere, bombs
collapse walls, ravage gardens. Somewhere, a boy

carries a rifle into a school room. Who can blame
the pious and exiled St. John for dreaming
of another world? I slice open a peach

and drop the pit into the loam of the flowerbeds.

Sunlight throws a robe over my shoulders,
rests a hand on my head, like a wobbling crown. 

What I Need Now

I need a version of creation
            to account for the cat’s curiosity,
                        the dog’s fidelity, the beauty
            of two white birds flying

over the bare oaks in a field,
            the goat’s lust. Humans, it’s said,
                        are created with a soul,
            on a higher plane than animals,

but where is the soul of the human
            emptying an ashtray on the grass,
                        or the soul of the corporation
            building a parking lot on a wetland?

If life is a spiritual quest,
            why do I keep searching
                        for the perfect haircut, a sweater
            that will match my eyes?

In the cosmic, Zen sense
            of what use is television?
                        Of what use is war?
            I should have asked these questions

eons back, and by now made some
            progress toward answers. Instead it is
                        the burro pastured by the trailer park
            who teaches me to mingle my breath

with the morning mist, to love
                        the grass because it is
            as much as because it is a gift
                        from any god.