Anticipation / A Pandemic of Birds (Ars Poetica) / Vespers / COVID Haiku /
Ars Poetica for the Third Night of the Full Moon
by Justin Evans
Anticipation
This morning gray clouds mute
what should be a bright new day
full of lilac and honeysuckle
carried to my door with a gentle,
kind breeze. Don’t mistake me.
I love the scent of rain as it dries
on the pavement, evaporating,
the smell of dust lingering for
a second taste of what once was.
These clouds are dense. The sun
will never burn through them—
patience and understanding will
have to rule my passions, help
take the edge of this long winter
which has lasted far too long.
No matter. The days are growing
longer and the sun knows its path.
There is another season coming.
A Pandemic of Birds (Ars Poetica)
Silence— not unlike the moment just after
the owl stops its haunting and only
moments before barn swallows take up
their song, there is a quiet madness
to the world, a dread for the sounds
and murmurs of the day upon which
news is carried. I find it difficult to
sleep through that silence, fearing I
should be writing a poem or perhaps
protesting the government on behalf
of the loss of sanity in the modern age,
but instead I pull up my sheets, force
myself back into my dreams, where
the tide of ignorance does not crowd
the sky with a multitude of dark spots
shifting in unison, themselves not
unlike fish, or honk into the wind like
Canadian geese drafting off each other
in turn to save their energy. And comes
now, the fear of plague beneath its most
familiar guise, that of coughing and
fever. Just a few more quiet moments
are all I want, that I might have strength
enough to withstand the coming storm.
Vespers
Night in the high desert
always enters like a lone hawk
descending, bringing the dark
down as she settles in: A day
of quiet observance. Her two
sharp eyes have seen much—
hunting prey like Demeter
seeking her stolen Persephone.
Dusk calls us to prayer as
the last strains of light try to
outlast the warm fires we keep.
Sing. Praise the night skies
filling with constellations. Let
your hearts dance to the music
that will soon fill the air, mingling
with piñon and mesquite.
COVID Haiku
awake before dawn—
the pavement still damp
from spring’s first rain
morning’s first light—
the pale white moon slips
behind the Pequops
standing on my porch
I look back into my house:
so much emptiness
Ars Poetica for the Third Night
of the Full Moon
—for David Kirby
Reaching above Three Mile Mesa
I pluck the tiny pearl moon
from the desert sky. I put it in my shirt
pocket for the walk home, only stars to
show me the way. My lament has
three movements but tomorrow I will
write an aubade with five, one each
for the days I must be without you.
When midnight comes I will crack
the moon open for its yolk
knowing it cannot feed the multitudes
without the faith of saints.
