Where Babies Come From

In the bowl Spirit gave me
we cooked up something new,
swirled it around, sprinkled wild seed,
herb-like breath, spices from my mother's side,
and we smoothed out the yard enough
to plant a little garden,

inside this watery sphere
muffled and sun-less
grew some girls.

Two,
one first, and four years later,
another.

One grew tall and the other traveled,
and they both grew
beautiful.

White herons,
ocean's albatross.

When I hear the birds in the far wood
call, I think of them. When the first snow
comes in for landing, or the tide rises and warms.
Fledged and in their own territories
coming back like eagles do,
just to hang out, be close,
show off their wings.

Remind me their feathers and bones
carry their life,
and the air which circles and weaves,
came through me, continues,

sweetens as it moves through them,
setting off chimes who ripple out
from the body's ocean,

currents of daughter-song,
something new,

welcomed and sent back
from infinite mystery








for Heather & Kelsey


c2011 T.L. Stokes (all rights reserved)

the day is like a book

Two strips of brown earth
in raised beds capture the sun
like soup for baby green heads
and lettuce,
fence posts,
ants in the grass,

where I dig a hole
for the new tomato plant.

She opened a few yellow bright
eyes to look around this morning.
Stretching those crooked arms
and gazing sideways.

I walked barefoot along the cement path.
The birds line up in all the trees
to enliven the leaves, notes
falling down with the green.

So many colors of green.

Ebony and Kona wait for their walk,
I hear them shuffling and tapping
their feet. A mouse makes a small
clicking noise in the nightie drawer.

The day is like a book. I set it down,
I pick it up. Turning one page, the
yellow sun has drained into gray-white
linen.

The dogs are quiet. The mouse is gone.






for the farm in all her glory

Tree of Birds

Tree of Birds
by T.L. Stokes



From vast paths unlit and mysterious
I am pulled back to the water planet,
back to slim light reaching under the window,
back to the sound of a thousand broken songs--
black wings crowded into one old alder
on the edges of the field.

My eyes are sleepy. White curtain drawn
away from the window, crouched and curious,
I watch the birds. Hundreds of wings carpet
the upper stretch of old black arms.
The crow family tries to scare them off,
they all sing louder. A busy roar. A squirrel
travels along dark highways, I can't even hear
him. The alpacas, soft and elegant, stare.

I lie on a pillow at the window, snapping photos
upside down. Loud birds in their monstrous flock
sing and chatter for a long while. Then a handful,
scatter away from the tree's head. Like pepper into
empty space. Then another handful. Over and over
they shake themselves away. I have a picture, of
the last one, what is his name--

what door did he close
when they had all flown away?





for Heather
because she sees magic