—Anonymous Photos of Hedgehogs, Bronze & Otherwise
BRONZE, THE HEDGEHOG
Did I mention to you
the blue-green of the bluegrass
here in Kentucky?
Did I remind you
that the bronze hedgehog
is still staring a blank stare
from his place in the garden,
out to the horse palace
with its copper steeples?
The horses are well-fed
and run twice a day,
so I don’t worry about them.
My concern is this:
Has anyone polished
Bronze the Hedgehog lately?
Does he desire, or require, polishing?
The grass has grown around
his girth and up in front of his face.
He’s still staring the horses down.
Perhaps Bronze really is unflappable.
HER SON SHINES THROUGH GLASS
A dark man smiles through
a sculpted brass picture frame
which rests on polished maple.
This brass-framed picture sits
near a triangular spot of light
reflected from the mirror behind.
This triangular spot of light glows
beside a small flower-painted urn
which holds a blue carnation.
The small flower-painted urn
is companion to a white teapot
which wears a gold-rimmed hat.
For company, she pours the teapot
which, dressed in white, tips his
gold-rimmed hat and whispers,
“Good day, Ma’am, whose
son shines through glass.”
A large black spider sat above my chair
as I slept and dreamt of my gentle lover’s hand.
I woke to find my matted, tangled hair.
Among my gray he’d found a light-red strand
and wove while running fingers round and round.
Among the locks of auburn, gray and dense,
he’d found a strand more pleasing on the crown.
The spider tucked it in, I am convinced—
the light-red strand he tucked is evidence.
THAT OL’ CAROUSER SUN
The Sun looks refreshed this morning
after a half day of carousing
on the other side of the world.
His ogle strikes a note of curiosity,
for which I wonder about his
pandering among the stars.
Has he encouraged a galaxy rave
with careless talk of light speed? Has he
drunk the gin of meteor showers?
Who’s to know, except residents on the
other side of the globe?—they, too busy
carousing in their nap-dreams to notice.
ZAMPHIR, PAN FLUTIST
I lie down in the meadow,
bare-foot and round-eared.
I hope to meet him here:
Zamphir, Pan Flutist.
He appears near a tree trunk,
leans his back against the bark,
draws in his first breath—
just as the sun is rising.
Zamphir’s breath slips over
his tongue and through his flute,
music flowing like blue through green.
Does Zamphir’s hand hold the pan flute?
Or, has the flute threatened to take away
his breath if he puts the flute down?
Zamphir’s heart is throbbing
with each black note escaping
I thought he was a bird.
Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
—Medusa, with many thanks to Carol Louise Moon for her fine poems today!
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