Polished Sandhill Crane

sand hill craneA polished sandhill crane
Stands on the table of my room,
White Tail-feathers nearly brush the ground,
Slender feet sustain it carefully,
As though ‘twould walk quite soon,
Beneath the long and gracious neck,
Shines out an oval spot of brown.

Her beak,
Like an ivory needle gently drawn high,
Attracts my eyelids upward from the earth,
Stretching gladly toward the pale blue sky.
My spirit seems to soar with a new birth.

The one who carved you
From that discarded horn,
Made you to match his lofty thought,
Through his delightful toil,
Your life was born,
By his sincerity
A thing of beauty wrought.

You stand there doing nothing,
Bending not a knee,
Still in your shaping
A heart gave,
Now looking
Uplifts me.

Cerita Marie Moore
January 4, 1966

Thanksgiving Symphony

geese

The goose orchestra is playing today on the lake,

A cacophony of sound

Tossed into the air by a brisk north wind,

Softened by the muffled wing flapping of late concert goers.

 

The gray sky and brown grass welcome the joyous music,

On an otherwise silent winter day,

As a thousand geese perform a symphony of gratitude,

For their safe arrival to our little lake of the south,

And we, with God, are listening.

                                                                                                                                                                                                Cerita M. Hewett
                                                                                                                                                   November 2005
                                                                                                                                               Revised November 2014

Harvesters

                                 Crows On The Sky

                                          Arrived today
                                          Somehow they know
                                          When the husks
                                          Split open on the pecans.

                                         My man plants his booted foot
                                         On one end of a springy slat
                                         Lifts up the other end and
                                         Three times he lets it go.
                                         Wham! Wham! Wham! 

                                        The shinny black demons fly
                                        Cawing their irritation at a feast
                                        Interrupted.

                                        Circling, calling raucously they
                                        Descend again
                                        Signaling their defiance
                                        At the warning whams.

                                        We go out
                                        Sacrificing gorgeous autumn days to
                                        Shake the trees and
                                        Gather up the nuts,
                                        Not conceding  
                                        All the delicious pecans to
                                        The harvesters.

                                                                                                Cerita M. Hewett
                                                                                                November 2001
                                                                                                (revised 2014)

 

No More

Tawny Owl Hidden Between Leafs

Behind the Alojamiento.
In the daytime, mostly hidden,
An owl sat in a leafy tree,
Only eyes, a foot, and half a body visible,
We looked for him in the light,
As we walked by there each day,
And listened for him at night,
As we lay suspended between awake and asleep.
Once in a while we would hear
A soft ooo- ooo- ooo-
Or a muted rustle of
Wings in flight.

Then one day we saw him no more,
Heard him no more,
Yet our heads turn as we pass his perch,
Hoping for one more sighting.
Still we listen for his call in the twilight hours,
Just a mirage remains,
Just an echo in our brains,
Only a gentle, pleasant, lingering memory!

Cerita M. Hewett
September 4, 2010