by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds, from the chapbook Refuge:

The Arrival

As if through a gate to an orchard As if a form of lightning Word whistling by A farmer says
They’ve arrived

You look around as if for beach glass—having once been taught by a child So many
Blues in a field No names Is it true

—Sound is our first sense? Did you hear that right? A mother’s cry A father’s silence . . .
Blue silk slipping through a golden ring

—That’s how you see birthing —Johnny Jump ups —Firethorn Senses born of childhood

A song goes viral—Odysseus comes to mind Look up
—Glory in a barren tree A crowning Mother Nature’s color wheel restored —Baltimore

Oriole!
—Body born of flame Igniting its shadow nearby No baggage

Threading commences In a pear tree—a cloister tapestry Try to keep up The air
Full of breeding How strange —To feel

Bereaved —A place in yourself finds a refugee

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