Poems

by Peggy de Broux

Heron Feed

If I were a heron, I would
seek a mate as curved as I,
as long of limb.

We could walk so slowly
the fish wouldn't know
our shadows are a menace.

Color Of Pistachio

Madronas are shaggy trees
along the Northwest Coast:
a string of orange sculptures
from British Columbia to Northern
California. They lean sideways,

sometimes upside down
from sandy cliffs.
I've danced among tree tops
hanging down to a gravel beach,
orange-peeling bark above,

glossy leaves below: arbutus, 
in B.C., madrona from 
Washington to California--
a tree that hints of mists,
only found near a coast.

Yesterday on a walk I found
a smooth pistachio green trunk,
covered paper thin with orange-brown
bark I could write on: carefully, I
peeled this mock papyrus, 

scratched a poem on the bark.
Sea breezes caught it, sliced it
from my fingers. It flows, from 
gull to tern to tiny swallows
nesting at Fort Worden.

Can birds learn my language?
Will they read the words?

Honey Oak

An oak table, gold as honey,
bears my arms, my hands
filled with bowls 
of applesauce for friends.

The honey oak warms my heart,
grown heavy with world news.
Its shine can help me back
to normalcy as I invite

the group to write on
its golden back, then read what
their pens gush forth.
They're all the same:

words, peas and potatoes,
cut-up peaches or apples,
palindromes and sonnets,
tall glasses of wine--

warm red of burgundy, a light
Chablis, companion to the red.
The oaken table bears them all:
great platters on Thanksgiving,

a simple plate of salmon,
vegetables cooked and raw,
words running off the edge,
dripping to the parquet

wooden floors which creak and groan
under weight as slight as the youngster
on my lap: my granddaughter.
The oak reminds me that honey is smooth

and soft: it cures sore throats
my grandmother said. She also
scraped apples with a spoon and called
it applesauce, a golden mush her gums

could handle. I think I never
tasted such sweetness, after that.