In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell
opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may
come to be held in common.
The way a flock of chickadees
moves through the woods, cheerfully,
each bird taking a turn on point.
All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone,
notwithstanding fears that rend and own us,
of dying unknown.
A Spring day
the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window
I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave.
No differently, really, than I would a man
who’d died suddenly.
Who’d left footprints in the snow
which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine
then snow again in time.
After long enmity
Sally hugs me, asks if I’ve been happy.
A moment in a year.
February, the light is long, more direct.
It’s meaningless, repetitious
but held dear.
Copyright 2007 by Robert Ronnow.