by Jan Wiezorek
Spring runs up to the sun
in a damp land that lives
all wet to the banks.
The owl seeks prey,
and from the deck
you will see grass-hues.
He feeds deer
from his hand here.
He calls them, “Here, deer,”
and they come, as big-eyed
as burrs. They live in wet,
with wild flocks and fox’s tails.
You will walk here
with those long gone,
and talk the trails out,
each step a plea up to the sun
and down on the flow. It runs
to the mouth, and then on.
The trick is: teach it to slow a bit.
___
Jan Wiezorek writes and paints from the trails of Southwest Michigan. His work has appeared in The London Magazine, among other journals, and he has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago.