Poems by Michael Spring

DEAD COTTONWOOD
(after Georgia O'Keefe)

 

it is a woman
stripped
of her flesh -- the bones
fused into one
chalky-white river above
the splintered pelvis
and the desert sand

the sky is hemorrhaging
the holy blue of Taos

in the background
another tree is full, green, fluttering like a bird
alive with a new breast of colors

but the dead cottonwood
is in a dance
posture -- her body
arched back --
one arm flows
like a scarf
frozen in the wind

it reminds me
of my daughter
when she was inside
the music of Bach, ending
a performance
on stage, with other dancers --

the pose as strong as anything
Rodin cast in bronze --

and because I have seen this
I think the tree is more alive
than everything around it

§ § §

CLOUDS
for Francesco Clemente

 

I do not have a problem seeing
the clouds as clouds

except for this one
in my right eye
forming
and deforming

it might as well be a line
of hooks
disguised as pink mist

waiting for my mind to stick
out its tongue

I'm concentrating
with everything I am

I put my finger
to my lips
and blow
a hushed sheet of sound
forceful enough to snuff out
a candle or quiet
a room of birds

§ § §

Michael Spring lives in Corvallis, Oregon. He has new poems forthcoming in ARTLIFE, Atlanta Review, Literary Potpourri, m.a.g., Paris/Atlantic, Pierian Springs, Southern Ocean Review, Sulphur River Poetry Review, and others. His chapbook, "Edge of Blue," was published by Siski Press, Oregon (publisher can be reached at siskipress@cs.com).

You can reach him at Bluecrow04@cs.com .

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