Daye Phillippo

 
Bird Tracks in Snow

A little sifting, snow on the winter field
            flat as tabletop. Someone messy up there

baking a cake or Mother Goose preening
            as Daddy used to say. This almost-nothing

of white, no wonderland, and yet
            on the flat stone below the spigot,

three sets of tiny bird tracks, arcing line
            of inquiry, sweeping
  
and lightly inscribed, saying
            this is the small weight of a snowbird

in winter. Of no great import, but making
            its momentary mark, as we all hope to do.

Sunlight After Illness

This Dominican red honey process coffee
            might be reviving my life right now along with
           
the brilliant red tulips finally blooming, not quite
            the deep red pictured on the package, yet

all winter, the pale bulbs, deep in the cast-iron earth,
            then this, green-stemmed goblets luminescent

in morning light? A triumph! Who could complain?
            There a spider web shimmers in sunlight,

its loose weave undulating softly in the breeze
            and there the glass rain gauge, shattered

in its holder, displays the sparkling edges
            of brokenness, best we can hope for, truth be told.

Lord, bless the pear-shaped crowns of pear trees,
            patient, white-blossomed and unquiet with bees.