tiny poems by Grant Hackett
using a mourning dove's coo
to quiet
my ears
lost the moon
behind a pine
so the day begins
long wings
climbing a thermal
virgin sky
rainy skies
flowers sleep
hazy moon
flowers dream
kneeling
hands in mud
restoring water to flow
eaves drip
dripping
the swollen heavens dry
mixing vinegar and water
before easter
snow squalls
with stems that stood
through winter—
here i'll plant my life
the wind
the house
i listen to them moan
the sun is warm
the windflowers will
lift their heads
under heaven's freedom
to be stormy or clear
wearing my black beret
equinox
the widower has grown
a new beard
dead branches
my living hands
breaking
picking up the dollar
someone dropped
a buddhist nun walks by
morning with
a killing frost
she prefers my naked face
pine forests i cannot see from
ohio
the sky reaches there
limbs that walk
limbs that grow
three old oaks and i
sky and winds loud and restless all day about money
releasing water from a stagnant pool i look within
a moonless night
my neighbor's light
all this hurry to die
a pregnant moon
we
climb into bed together
killed
on the road
i have no heart for travel
morning sky
evening of my life—
receive the waxing moon
a quick thunderstorm has left me rushing
shuffles away in his body
bends
a tree
white orchids
yellowing—
i have an appointment to be cured
away, alone
a gravel road
blackbirds chattering
an early windflower
white
where snow never fell
sharing last night's
dreams
dawn bleeds
to avoid my hands
an injured finch
flutters from death on the road
for pine cones swept to an asphalt fate i grieve
blue umbrella
broken rib
cloudless skies
even the old orchard
turns death
into grass
sawing downed limbs into rolls of thunder
tracing wounds
across the spiraling sky
fallen tree and i
plundering an abandoned nest
one crow
death
within
the paper lantern
storm-darkened ohio night
the artist
sheds
his clay