Excerpts

From Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love: 

How We Burn

Life aches to fill us up and I mean

that the blueness of the sky

shades and colors the hands

of someone in mourning.

I mean that red-winged blackbirds

sing for us, not only the sun,

that when we dare to lift up our eyes,

we see the high clouds in their diffident

caress of heaven, a storm warning

without that calls to us, within. 

I strive to give voice to why it is that

we so love the dying ancient trees

when they arch over this robin’s-egg

dome of atmosphere; or why we muse

over our lives like mariners dreaming

by lamplight whose ships fill with water.

Who will break the news to them?

We put our hands on the keys

as if we are at a grand piano, reaching

for an unnoticed, unscored chord,

or we fling down silver lire as if some

augury lay there.

I trace my past to need and lack;

I’ve mastered singing, transcending,

all you can do-- but still, the white mare
with immense dark eyes

I put down in June waits for me on

the edge of the inner field.

The way she looks back at me, tulip ears

forward, wide nostrils scenting the air

says, you will never be healed of your love

for this world.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013