Two Poems by Stasha Powell

 

Lullaby for the Watchers 

 
Birdsong unscrews the sky, 
each note a hinge turned gently. 
My eyes close slowly, 
clouds stitching their weight 
into the backs of my knees. 

I pledge myself to the small things: 
moth-wings, beetle-hum, 
the secret ache in grass. 

Fireflies blink in Morse— 
or maybe it’s laughter. 
Gold light clings to the oak bark 
like old blood. 

The cardinal preaches at the fence. 
The robin forgets her name. 
A vulture sprawls in benediction, 
sun-drunk, wings cruciform. 

Somewhere, between the fence and the trees, 
the air pauses, 
holding its breath, 
taking my measure in shadow and gold. 
The light leans heavier, 
stretching toward the last 
soft place it can find. 

 

Message from the Trees

Seven sister branches sway in the breeze, 
sending a whisper of thought to me, 
transmitted through pollen-infused sunbeams. 

I'm entranced 
by the return of the large fuzzy bumblebees, 
by flitting goldfinches 
singing their secrets. 

The restless wind tugs at the prayer flags, 
flicking ash across the stones. 
We’re burning incense, 
saging the yard clean. 

Purple “weeds” with dandelion accompaniment 
paint the lawn into a Monet meadow. 

It’s time to clear the altars— 
to sweep away the brittle lilac petals, 
the wax-dripped candle stubs, 
the rain-swollen scrolls of spring intentions— 
and dress them 
in the greens and golds of fireweed and calendula, 
bright citrus ribbons, 
sun-shaped marigolds in cracked mason jars. 

Still, I sit, 
contemplating the message from the trees— 
Let it all go. 
Then bloom back 
better than before.

Stasha Powell is a poet and homeless advocate whose work lingers at the edges of beauty and danger. Her poems often summon color as spell, omen, and memory, weaving mystical imagery with visceral truth. She writes into thresholds where the luminous turns haunting and the ordinary becomes uncanny. You can find her at www.stashapowell.com.