Poetry Thursday: Margo Button

Verses 5, 6, and 7 from the exquisitely long "Blue Dahlias," by Margo Button.

5

The heron's beak points next door but her jaundiced eye
focuses on the koi pond. I'm keeping count.

Chasing barn swallows, the dog's in her glory.
In the Yuchi language God is a verb

and there is no word for temptation.
Bird feeders hang from the eaves beyond reach.

Grief / weighs down the see-saw; / joy cannot budge it.
I do not subscribe to this. Cannot.

The dog explodes into motion. A race horse
out of the gates. Exuberant as a springbok.

6

Tent caterpillars burst with a pop, spraying
the sandstone rust and lime. I have no mercy.

In the yard, the music of bronzed Greek gods
with rippling muscles. Play at work, work at play.

I'm feeling déracinée while new plants take root.
Will the gardeners ever leave? And the turquoise port-a-potty?

At the club an oak limb fell and demolished three cars.
In summer there's no warning. And in winter?

Natalie picks up their soft weightless bodies, mesmerized
as they curl around her fingers.

7

The dog brings home a finch
throbbing in her loose, soft mouth. No harm meant.

After the upheaval of moving, the soul requires
months to catch up. Dig earth, pull weeds, feed birds.

White spots on the caterpillars' heads are fly eggs.
Don't kill those. Remember the Jains.

Swoosh. Two mallards skid on to the pond,
rise on struts, fan and shower. Welcome.

Rhodos in tarty dress, plain-Jane grasses,
crone oaks rigid with vines. Everyone gathers.

[Image: "Dahlia" by Steven N. Meyers, via the New York Public Library Art Shop]