The rasp of a cactus wren pries open the morning. Javelinas came in the night, rooted out and ate all the new flowers except the snapdragons.
Harp music trips across from the neighbor’s yard where he is trimming his olive tree.
The mountains are obscured in low clouds and there is slush in the rain. I need a rock to smash ice for the birds.
Who hid the old mattress behind our shed? Empty Coke can and chip bag breathe sadness.
When rain seeps into the phone line, no one can bother us. But the Holy Spirit is an earworm.
The doc says I can cut the cancer pills in half.
“Seek the gifts offered by conflict and hurt.” The tyranny of anger will rot your bones but kind words are like honey.
Someone has hung sparkling ornaments on the tree by the bridge, red and gold laughter; and a blue silk hummingbird.
Hidden among the creosote a private shrine blazes red and yellow paper flowers from a mug that says, “We love you Mom.”
In the scrub land by the old canal, stones and worn bricks are arranged to spell the names of teenage crushes.
My love goes nowhere without his cane, but his arms around me are young saplings.
The blue silk bird has flown—the mountains weep snowmelt into the sand.
I mourn: hawks have left a pair of sparrow legs in the birdbath.
In the sliver of time when all other lights in the house have gone out, I listen to old songs that remember when I was young.
Bio: Charity Everitt
