Heron on a brown
April morning.
Impeccable dew lattice.
 
All else throngs
the mother: faith
and ambition’s entwined
 
pledge, doubt
bloated like a washed up
animal, rough
 
lunges at light.
Each a map
for thundering
 
to the moment’s milk,
the wind’s protracted carve
into rock.
 
At the center
of stone, cream
flecked with cartilage,
 
some fundamental earth
-bound alphabet,
a succulent nourishment
 
inextricable
from the opportunity
of mortality.
 
A soft wreckage
draws the world
out part birth part
 
gentle turning
of bread dough
meditation
 
of flowers strung
together like an elderly
swimmer. Heron
 
on a brown April
morning. The meaty back
of quiet pressed
 
against a curled
shoulder.
Sparrows
 
flitting at the edge
of a city
coerced inward.
 
We are miracle
fostered by miracle.
Sometimes
 
I peer so directly
at myself
I empty
 
into the dirt.
Heron
on a brown
 
April morning.
Hair
on a brow.
 
Nape of morning.
Miracle
worlding miracle.

Shabnam Piryaei

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