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Decisions
Benjamin Green

The canyon sharpens into a barb;
Even the red feathers on the house finch
Bloom with violent bloodshed.
Late autumn— the blaze of cottonwood leaves
Lies stark on snow-soaked soil.
Prickly pears mimic green blisters
On red dirt.

Cars descend on the highway,
Pass by what matters, and
What matters goes unnoticed:
A robin trembles, lift into
The snow
Showering like flower petals,
Makes a decision
On this very day in October
To fly to Juarez, Mexico.
I whisper, go. It’s okay, go.

The world chills— an abundance of ice—
It seems it has been cold for weeks now,
Already.
Sometimes, to avoid being broken,
I understand,
One has to leave, depart, migrate
From the cruelty of beauty,
And lift into the warmth of wind, of movement.

There is a black widow
In the corner
Of my garage
Waiting in a ragged web.

—
Benjamin Green is the author of eleven books, including The Sound of Fish Dreaming. At the age of sixty-six he hopes his new work articulates a mature vision of the world and does so with some integrity. He resides in New Mexico.

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