Diane Webster, 01/12

Buzz Sound

I only hear the hummingbird
and see the cat peer into the tree
like hearing a mosquito while once asleep
now awake waiting for distance to close
within slapping distance
hoping I feel tickling legs first
to swat that itchy menace
but only ebb and flow buzz
like on the edge of dreams
until silence deafens my straining ears,
and I wonder where it rests
while I try not to sleep,
while I wonder if a cat
sees mosquitoes in the dark
or hummingbirds between leaves

 

Mountain Breath

Snowcapped mountains in February
breathe as peak-top wind
scatters snow into torn clouds
or like steam rising from last night’s
grass clippings piled in garden
glistening with pre-spring frost
but inside, perking summer warmth;
steam like molten ancestors
snorting into the air with cautious puffs
to monitor height in case new lava
needs to flow taller than erosion;
a sleeping beauty’s veil lifted
by a curious breeze to glance
the face beneath before awakening
like curtains gently brushed aside
or thistle down drifting to fertile ground
alive like this Colorado mountain

 

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