Lyn Lifshin

TEMPERATURES FALLING

Moon slivers on the

rolling skin of water.

Geese in half light,

armada of feathers.

Wind blows them closer.

One silver band glows.

Their onyx, black flame

in a night fire

***

EARLY, 20 DEGREES,  JANUARY

wood’s almost white

before water goes

rose. What’s left

of night pools in

coves. Black ripples.

Indigo outlines. A

slate V. Ice tipped

feathers. Dark flickers

as melon spreads,

breath, a caption

anything, still could

be written on

***

IN THE ONE SPACE THAT WASN’T FROZEN

the heron, deep

in pond water,

still as sticks

and then, a sudden

swoop like the

last fruit falling

off a tree into snow.

I happened to see it,

standing near the

window, that flash

of tangerine and

gold in its beak like

a barb of sun, a slice

of guava in colorless

air. It’s been so long

I don’t remember

something I looked for

and wanted to come

came so fast

***

HERON ON ICE

Pale salmon light,

9 degrees. Floor

tiles icy. Past

branches the

beaver’s gnawed

at the small hole

the heron waits,

deep in the water.

Sky goes apricot,

tangerine, rose.

Suddenly, a dive,

then the heron

with sun squirming

in his mouth, a

carp that looks a

third as big as he

is gulped, then

swallowed, orange

glittering wildly

like a flag or the

wave of someone

drowning

Author Biography:

Lyn Lifshin is a poet and teacher. Over 120 books and chapbooks of her work have been published. She has also edited 4 anthologies, numerous literary magazines and cultural publications, including The American Scholar, Christian Science Monitor, Ploughshares, and Rolling Stone Magazine.