Two Poems by Rick Hartwell

Tern Around

 

Not lonely, alone.  She is

solicitous of her solitude.

Her limitless blue world

expands seasonally to

four compass points.

Speckled tan against ivory,

head cocked to one side,

she is the focal point

centered in the stark

arctic of her world.

Is she praying in this

austere light or the prey,

or perhaps part of the

prayer itself?  She is

unique, vibrant in a

world of visual sterility.

Some subtle switch in

electromagnetic flux,

perhaps a temperature

trigger in her cortex;

for whatever reason,

she prepares for extended

flight, unaware of any

Darwinian dilemma.

Why now, here, right in

the middle of creation?

 

 

 

One Leaf Falling

 

I watch one leaf drop from

a rose tree at twilight and

wonder what it signifies.

 

I note it was not a petal

from a bloom long past

its blush, but mere leaf,

one of many, not one

soured by the sun, tanned,

not fit to serve any longer.

 

It was a leaf still green,

presumably still full of life.

 

What made it fall then?

 

Why let go mother branch?

 

Or was it flung from its nest

for some unseemly conduct?

 

I’ll never know, not being

knowledgeable of leaf lore,

tree coda; but I would wager

that within the tale of the

fall of the leaf – or was

she or he pushed after all? –

lives the story of mankind.

 

Yes, I’ll wager; but what

will you put up on your side?

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.