March 1: From Caracol to La Ronda Parakata

In an epoch of nightmares,

the walk to the lake,

transformed by mood and by moment,

planned as a journey with Jetta,

to proceed from Caracol

to La Ronda Parakata,

from Black Lives Matter,

the name and the point

of resistance and vision,

this time around,

to the fresh flow

of Ukrainian blood,

and the tears for democracies,

forever imperfect.

 

The redwing blackbirds are back

and begun to build their numbers,

though not yet reached

the this-is-ours claim

that will soon fully invest

blackbird central

in advance warning

of dive-bombing birds

headed this way.

 

On the way, the gray planter totems—

massive, ornamental contraptions,

bizarrely conceived as artful décor

for the concrete expanses

of breakwaters and piers—

have somehow been heaved,

grinding and fractured,

by the great lake in winter.

The pulverized fragments lay on the path,

like bits of Kyiv littering the world.

 

The caracol, Spanish for snail,

an escalera de caracol,

a spiral staircase pressed flat,

its broad painted surface,

splashed with color of cultures

and feelings gathered on borders

of habits badly in need of fresh vigor.

 

The phoenix of hope

for a future at risk,

depends largely on those

who can juggle their fear

and plan radical ways

for healing all wounds.

 

A barge makes its way

through ice jamming boat slips.

The watermen whisper to water

with words not meant for my ears,

but I do hear their murmurs

and do have the tools

to shape meanings that drive me

to where I and all this

are harnessed to go.

 

In the tufted tall grass

of the cold weather prairie

Jetta digs from the ice

the shredded remains

left behind by a hawk,

and swallows rotted morsels

before just a mile further on,

vomiting a bit back

to the field to share

with whomever will next eat

off this ground.

 

Over the rise

in the trail ahead

comes the form of La Ronda 

where the butterflies pray

to slow our ill-fated rush.

The view this day is still water,

and the weather

waits to be called

to deliver trouble in surges

resembling the way

the dark ages looked

to those who could see

the future unfolding.

 

And justice continues denied.

And the blood keeps on spilling.

And pooling and drying and staining the world.