Norway morning

On an April morning
chill as a fjord,
a Norway maple’s whippy branches
are riding winds
in a New York courtyard
of half-lit bricks
and a third-story window
mirroring clouds dimensional as night
and an almost-imaginary
purple-blue sky.
If a family of butterflies
were tied to branches,
their wings would shimmer in various greens,
hinting of fall,
like these maple leaves
shaking with cold
in a Norway morning,
as the earth moves in its blankets of clouds,
spinning out winds,
singing of you, singing to you.

© Apr ’10 Heather Quinn, all rights reserved

Sharp against the heavens’ dark

Would quiet
amplify
a heart that feels
your strength,
uncover
the eyes that watch
your flight,
light
the woman shadowing
your strides?

Blueness,
sharp against the heavens’ dark,
my salt,
my curve and sweetness,
love — would it?

© Jan ’10 Heather Quinn, all rights reserved

Sky Blue

the places, to live and to be,
for the artist that’s inside of me,
in wrenched-apart clouds were born,
from skies broken open by storm:

when i was a baby my mom
carriaged me outside our home.
my real mom the sky and the trees.
now i love sky, i love trees.

when i’m sad, i look in the air.
my sky blue and green mom is there.
within the clouds’ spaces i live,
my mother’s green leaves are my crib.

my feet on my mother’s tree arms
my head in my mother’s sky eyes
my arms side to side
and my fingers stretched out
my bare feet my fingers my palms
in contact with god and my mom.
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