A pond the color of Oriental teas.
A heron refusing to look anywhere but east.
Mangroves flecked with a fire,
deep-set birches rife
with the wait for night. In stone,
the heron stares: the stoic tones
of the sky a storied procession of palms;
their red-tipped fronds, overhanging lamps.
Water-bird, it has been centuries since I felt
anything for you. You have been left:
look around. Why does the owl
rest on a goddess’s shoulder while you wade so low?
Complaint in the Garden. Copyright © 2004 by Randall Mann. Reprinted by
permission of the author.