Living Midair    poems by Karen June Olson April 2019

It’s Only the Wind

Where I ‘ve walked or now ride
a rusty Schwinn, hundreds of bees
mob a ceiba tree’s January blossoms.

In the Yucatan, some believe the tree
is sacred, a berth where the dead find passage
between the heavens and underworld.

A tree where bats wing their way through leafless
branches, swoop and rise with impossible
speed, voracious, swallowing moths throughout the night.

Bees and bats can frighten
a passerby. My hands might cover
my head, or if I walk slowly, possibility hosts

what is eerieā€”an unlit street,
a missed step, seeing myself
wrapped within a cape of darkness.

I seek safe crossing,
to be steady on my feet, to feel for the heavens
in the company of wings, while still standing.

Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission.