Friday, March 14, 2008


Something flashes over the ridge, sun
illuminating feathers, sweet aura
shining, a glinting treasure against
the pale late-winter sky

Something is caught in the throat
of the dark thin trees, spinning down
stilled now, towards the deep
moss and cranberries, the last
of the crusted snow

Someone is held abruptly, sharply
skimmed from monotonous daily duties
of cataloguing pine nuts
from last year’s obsessive stash

Somewhere meaning
has been found in a cycle complete,
in a cough-ball, matted fur and
jewelled ribcage, intact
a life shrunk to the size of a curiosity

Someone sits now, preening
polishing hard weapons,
glint shifting from gold to green
omniscient, every small movement
and tiny death indelibly sketched

Rachel Westfall
March 14, 2008


Poetikat said...

I laughed out over the "cataloguing of pine nuts" and shivered at the "preening polishing hard weapons". I love it!


RachelW said...

Thanks, Kat! I wasn't sure if this poem worked, when I first posted it; I like it better now.