Five days of rain and now this clean morning
pulse of pure light— luminous on the sill
the peacock plume’s iridescent blue-green.
Whenever I gaze at it, said Darwin,
makes me sick, its inexplicable art
grounded in the functional universe.
Silent chickadees stab gray weeds for seed.
By noon leaden clouds weigh the valley dull.
Battling gloom I load my yellow brush
wild hue burning like southern sun. Why we
stirred red ocher with bison fat, painted
Lascaux with reeds, and pebbles shaped like birds.
Shells evolving from Miocene oceans
to bones, to hands that abandoned the sea.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3.
See all items about Carmen Germain