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Stone path, oat grass, stray cat, snare,
feather drift in feather air.
Laurel, anthill, train horn blare,
pecan shell shards on the stair.
One cat gnaws,
one wing tears.
Less song for the power line to bear.
Coo-OO-oo she sang, my dear.
Copyright © 2018 Cecily Parks. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Tin House, Spring 2018.
So this is Sunday evening
under the live oak behind the kitchen
where the Rose of Sharon
spills purple tea onto the grass,
the yellow bells sound yellow alarms
from tall stalks, and the sunflowers peep
over the fence into the street
where car tires lap at the pavement
The grackles plummet down to pierce the lawn
For seeds and fat brown live oak acorns and
Ignore the orange plastic watering cans
My daughters drop in the cold grass, my daughters
Saying, Goodnight grass, as if the blades they’d watered
By hand were their daughters, as if the grass
Were a feeling they’d been feeling, greenly
Reckoning the evening, the ball moss falling from the trees,
The sun circling the crouched shade of the weeping
Persimmon tree as mildly as the knife rounds
The persimmon I bring inside so I can say
Apache Plum
Mexican Blazing Star
Blue Agave
Cherokee Sedge
Mexican devil-weed
Mexican elderberry
Esperanza
Fall Obedient Plant
Mexican feathergrass
Gaura
Mexican hat