By P.T. Tyx
It Is Summer and I Open to Be a Window
(for David, because of the car keys. 2001.)
Shut inside, I see summer’s rounded swells of leaves, which twitter sunlight in the breeze
At play, and yet, in serious display, of life in movement at startling work.
It is June and I open to be a window.
Burdensome heat and brightness to the eye collapse my earnest approaches to espy
The image of God in yellow dandelion.
It rises from seed among crowded green blades, cutting round yellow into parcels of air-lifted white,
Each fluff a miracle in flight… tap-rooted weed to angel on wing.
It is July and I open to be a window.
I have lived too long the adult consideration of how-much and where-to and when-by,
Spent too much of myself in the hurry-up and the must-get-done and the need-to-know.
Now I choose to cleanse my soul and engage summer anew.
I shall finger the keys to my car, but not in preparation to go,
But rather in the presence of stay,
That I might feel the mystery of summer’s heat in its appearance in the touch of metal.
I shall garden my faith and harvest my prayers by reaching my spirit in the spaces my senses seek-
Into the smells, sounds, and sights so familiar they hide the amazements-
Yes, all that we pretend to understand.
I quiet as the crickets hymn.
It is August and I open to be a window.
Cock-Sure No More
(for the rooster parading on St. Rt. 721. 2015.)
I am a little, scurrying creature, who has lived long enough to accept
he cannot endure among the wolves of Wall Street or the hyenas of academia.
I lack fangs and size and convictions.
When I clamber from branch to branch it is not a clamor for attention
like that idiot rooster strutting in the road, challenging cars, to prove himself for all to see.
I prefer to find holes to escape notice of those who would eat me in one swallow.
Yes, I chatter too much, but no one pays me much mind,
unlike when others bark or snarl or yelp or crow.
My chubby cheeks and round belly testify to my appetite for good things.
There are a great many of us with fluffy tails, but we too often die when we dare.
Few are strong or clever enough to not be devoured by dreams
of being less small.
P.T. Tyx lives near Greenville, Ohio. You can read his previous poetry on this site here.