by René Parks

Through dull grass, red-breasted soldiers will March
alert and proud, scouring the trenches,
eggs to lay in the belly of an arch

The blow tickles the underarm of branches,
rattling fragile and delicate buds.
Shadows angle themselves over benches

truer and taller forms from the light nudge,
clouds fickle desire tosses and turns
the sleepyheads all out of their tight beds,

and it comes soon enough they will return.
And constellations draw the last number,
planets skate through and by, each has a turn

directly. A slight hoary breath under
the hum of her thoughts softly sings, mother.
The Eighth day, after she shakes off slumber,

her sun! liquid ice drains from another
age in rivulets to now sodden earth,
forms merge to suddenly rediscover

bulbs igniting and burning up with mirth.
A head pushes through dark and light illumes
a faith unmatched in the joy of a birth.