Sheet music littered the alleyway,
crushed under dumpster wheels, drowning
in puddles of unidentifiable liquids. One
lone page clung desperately to metal grate.
As I watched, the wind nudged, forced it
through cracks. As it disappeared down
anonymous drainway, I swore I heard the light
tinkling of ivory keys, the touching
tones of a funeral dirge.
Miniature wooden sculpture. Phallic
pillar, crowned in crushed red
flint. Flecks of potential fire
wait for fingers to force it forward.
a tiny spark to burn the world.
I Am Arctic
breath, a cold exhale, a tangible
accumulation of moisture, momentary clinging
to molecules. I am smokeless tendril, a ring
blown through a ring, a trick of atmosphere.
I am temporary proof of life, a trail
of respiration. I am ephemeral flutter,
a tongue-cloud rising, an effigy
to Icarus, knowing I too will fail
to touch the sun.
after Red Poppy, artist Osnat Tzadok
Fire blooms in petals centering
around a black-holed universe spattered
with golden suns. A centrifuge
of fragrance, it calls tiny winged wills
to its source. They worship
under graceful watch of albino sky,
the only fitting backdrop for this
well-spring of regenerative advance.
A.J. Huffman © 2014