How It Shakes

                  I feel

 a small injured bird fluttering

                in the heart of

                     my heart

The great ship of Earth

               plows on

unmindful of bird, flutter

               or pulse

 

She herself is hurting

an unseen broken winged

          creature, sick

             and so

alone

 

Humans are the weapons

            that infect, ignite and

wring the life out of our planet

 

My eyes burn with rivers

              and oh, my heart

Mother Earth, my heart

                         how it shakes

 

J. Pratt-Walter  © 2020

Entering My Seventh Decade

Tonight I hear the quiet years

as they tiptoe past the clock.

Still, summer light lingers here between

fall’s melody and rhythm.

My hands gather mornings and friends

tuned to my life’s unfathomable keys.

 

The rosined bow of time draws slow over

my thoughts in a sigh, and you are here.

Our songs are entwined as swans

nesting on the weight of our days.

Vast is the music nearly below hearing—

loss has engraved its hammers here and there;

still, your sky tunes my mind

and hope plays upon my harp like water,

welcome and sweet.

 

J. Pratt-Walter, ☺2020

Her Traditional Birthday Poem

Oh the years,

the years that stream by,

if I could but pause you in your course,

if I could rename your momentum

I would hold you to my breast

like a small hurt kitten or a soft candle,

 

I would read you slowly like a love note

to my entire life painted here in

Autumn’s unfinished watercolors.

 

J. Pratt-Walter  (c) 2020