The weeping cherry is a sparrow tree

bristled with birds and other small things

that shelter within the unkempt tangle

of the crown, spilling in knots like Medusa’s

locks would if she slept poorly and couldn’t

get a brush through the nest of snakes that

bare their teeth as I do with you when

you’re too long gone and this refuge recoils,

licking empty air with a thousand tongues.

Look away quick. Stone comes to those

who stare at the writhing that warns

without hissing. This one sings.

©Dana Hughes 1.14.19

Like a pendulum I have coursed

from here all the way to there

and then reversed and come back

to this very spot worn like the ground

beneath a swing where small feet have

scuffed the grass clean away before

lifting skyward in an arc that simulates

the ecstasy of Icarus just before the wax

warmed and gave him over to Gravity

just as I was in the instant after letting

go in an exchange between up

and down that I swear sounded like

a voice saying NOW, when flying

became falling and the ground

rose up, indignant at my temerity.

Yet as before when breath returns,

I’ll be up and at it once more.

©Dana Hughes 12.31.18