Of Sharp Edges

Blades sing to me in a language of angles.  Anvil pruners, simple edge

90 degrees to a flat plate, ratchet-cut tends to crush.  Today they taste roses.

Noon calls for hedge pruners with the graceful scalloped blades.

I press the sharpening stone like a small gravity,

circling my arm, wrist locked.  My hand is a moon in orbit

in a low angle to squeeze weaponry onto twin lips of steel.

Later I take up a small honest sickle to battle blackberries.

I have honed it well – I test the razor with a finger

and am cut so easily I hardly feel it.  My blood sanctifies my efforts.

My pocketknife that I found grumps with resentment.  I have left it dull

too long.  It reminds me that I can’t change circumstances,

but I can alter the angle of my life to them,

sharpen my blades, prune out the unnecessary.

My favorite sharpness:  A massive antique scythe.

It is made to move through, to level.

It sings a primal music, Sheshh!  Sheshh!

with each swing. On the backstroke I bow to its power and purpose,

making way, never sorry for doing so.  It has mown miles,

the ripe barley, the gold sheen on the wheat.

What needs to be edited or excised in your life?

Pick up some smooth-voiced shears or artful Japanese saw.

Note the angle of how it speaks.  Polish the edge well and begin.

J. Pratt-Walter 5/26/2020

Horse

A lake of clove-brown,

an eye that might have been a star

that might have been an eye

holds on to me as I dish up the grain,

cloaked with dark molasses.  Lady is all honest

mindfulness in this moment. Lying

is not possible in the psyche of a horse.

Her liquid sienna gaze sweeps my steps,

strokes my arm into the bucket.

The black fleece of her nose affirms

I am hers, that the smells are right,

because trust is built on predictable scents.

Tonight I bathe in her clarity,

seeing myself in the center of the center

of a horse-eye, feeling the slow sift

of her mind touching mine, knowing wordlessly

how small connections like this time-shard

can temper the world’s stress and sorrow.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2020

Then I Woke Up

       Then I woke up, my memory remade,

still slender as the dream of the chickadee

outside the bedroom window.

Then I woke more and wandered

through the garden, the coral azalea

releasing its lurid scent indiscriminately

over the just and the unjust,

the young and me, the unsure elder.

I thrice awoke, reeling to the perfect homily

of Nature and her unbound truths

masquerading as a slow walk around the yard,

her small prophets the mourning doves

and tree frogs, her flowers calling bees

to their mumbling tasks, life aiding life

unceasing.

They preached this to all who would understand

in this time of separation and dread:

even apart, we are all still a dazzling bouquet

just waiting to happen.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 5/10/2020

Mother’s Day

Her small prophet

Fallen Prayer

In the morning my prayer was a small earthworm stranded

in night’s dew on an unforgiving path.

Knees bent, I tenderly placed him in wet soil, my Amen.


At midday my prayer was the tumbled willow by the stream, still

unfurling her wands and catkins in long graceful whips.

I marveled at how the weather wove her patterns into my Amen.


Near dark my prayer was an injured thrush rolling in fright

in the brush.  She scolded me as I turned her over,

seeking the injury.  Maybe both a wing

and a leg were broken.  She could not stay upright, she could not

rest.  I contemplated taking her home, putting her in a box

with water and soft grasses, feeding her the worms. 


She watched me sideways then

partly closed her pale eyelids from the bottom up.

Her pulse was a thin vibration, her breathing a tangle.

I set her gently at the base of the fallen willow, covered her

with the kind grasses and walked away.  I have not yet found

an Amen. 


J. Pratt-Walter (c) 2020