Poetry
5 Pieces
By kenneth pobo
TREE HOUSE
The boys next door
build a rickety one--
unpainted wood block steps,
a few warped boards,
old maple branches
nailed. They climb up,
perch. Bird boys,
free of their house cage,
watch bees fly
to my Russian sage,
goof
in shirts made of sky.
****
SUMMER AUBADE
Dawn: titmouses and sparrows
dart to the bird bath.
With a fat gold belly, the sun
slops down,
basks.
****
ISAIAH 55:12 REVISITED
“and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands."
1.
Old Testament trees
clap. Sunday School
teachers said this wasn’t
really true--trees have
no hands. Among trees,
I hear claps, loud
and long--
trees suck
water from Earth’s tap,
feel an eagle’s whoosh
as she takes off,
shade a bald head.
2.
Few trees clap
anymore. Whole forests
clear cut, savaged--
stumps,
cemetery markers--
I visit the dead, wait
for a single clap,
even a leaf falling,
hear nothing.
****
Mango coneflower
a black bucket
sunrise
****
love sticky
white
milkweed pods
