snowstorm with porcupine, guitar, & birds

two day snow: quail hunched on the cherry tree’s thin
limbs, cracked corn the only golden object seen
in opaque swirling air
                  & you were happy in that
afternoon silence, aroma of garlic,
lime, cumin, turmeric in the kitchen, three
hands of cribbage in the bedroom—
                  this is what
it could have been: a porcupine had clambered
up the old apple tree in the draw, four
juncos gathering stray
                  seeds on the porch, five
cassin’s finches in a flurry of cerise
umber white striped feathers pecking black
thistle seed six bronze guitar
                  strings breaking the quiet in
chrome resonator reverberation, one
parrot’s green & yellow chatter under the
dragon tree, that
                  Theotokos of Vladimir
wrapped in peperomia pellucida, you were
happy in that rocking chair gazing at dense
air past the galvanized tub’s
                  rosemary; a blue plate’s
seven mandarin orange slices, the lone
porcupine still huddled up the tree far past
the pasture gate
                  no reason to come down yet
no reason to expect this tranquil
whiteness to vanish utterly come
                  muddy April

Jack Hayes
© 2016