I wake to a congregation I cannot see.
Standing on my threshold, I am stilled, aware
of calls, once cacophonous now distinct —
the Bewick’s wren trills, the mourning dove coos,
the Steller’s jay claiming his territory, calling his mate.
Apple blossoms burst and fall. Pink and white.
Tonight, we welcome the pink moon,
the egg moon, the grass moon, the moon
that marks the return of hope and renewal.
The perigee a tease. The Farmer’s Almanac says
now is the time to kill weeds, cut timber,
thin, prune, plant.
The rains have come just in time to try
and wash us clean, but the moon does not care
about our winters and our wretchedness.
We think one conviction will dig our ugly out,
thin the rotten ranks. But one is not enough
to quell roots wily, well-fed and still so hungry.
HEATHER BOURBEAU‘s work has appeared or will appear in 100 Word Story, Alaska Quarterly Review, The MacGuffin, Meridian, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and SWWIM. She is the winner of La Piccioletta Barca’s inaugural competition and the Chapman Magazine Flash Fiction winner, and has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has worked with various UN agencies, including the UN peacekeeping mission in Liberia and UNICEF Somalia.
