A View from the Nest

A VIEW FROM THE NEST

I really do not know
which I love more;
the skylight sparkling with stars,
or when it's the color of a bird's egg,
steaked white with cloud snakes,
or that small window
on the south end of your loft,
when morning's color book
drenches golden-green
the moss on Mother Tree,
or Archie's purring
as he lies at the foot of your waterbed
between our legs,
or that bag of bright marbles
I discover beneath
the creek's ripples
as I bend over to brush my teeth,
or the strong oder of alder split
into quart-sized chunks,
drying in stacks on your puncheon porch,
and in symetrical piles beside
the black rotund barrel that will be
their crematorium,
or the frantic clatter of the three cats
scampering along the runs
that gird your cabin,
or how it feels to hug you,
and without prompting,
to begin to sway to some sweet,
but silent
music
that rises up
from our twin hearts,
or how we see movie stars
in each other's faces.


Glenn Buttkus 1990