All We Are
Sometimes you have to let go
of fear, release it like a balloon
from your freeing fingers.
What you have left isn’t emptiness.
Turn your hand so the palm
is toward the sky: a plea?
An offering?
What you breathe in is what you hold --
your very life.
Each invisible molecule awakens
to the energy of this earth:
every worm tunneling the soil,
every crocus lifting petals in spring,
daylilies nodding to the sun,
the nightingale serenading each moon.
Watch the balloon, embraced by blue,
consumed,
until even its speck is gone.
Threading Space
Crossing dusk is the first step:
right into the night where no stars are,
no moon to sigh your name.
Once through, there are no shadows –
only sounds of those singing around you.
Some songs have the low, flat notes of the blues
and others the anger of electric guitars
plucking each string over and over
until you want to screech a counterpoint.
But, if you keep going, over at the edges
where honeysuckle infuses the air,
you’ll hear a simple chord,
then voices lifting in unison,
drawn to this melody.
A crescendo of arpeggios resonates
then a clear soprano fills the darkness.
A chorus hums, echoes throughout this dim space and then –
just where the horizon unravels –
the severing of night.
Portions
Morning half gone when light
glosses the leaves like spun glass
and clouds heather the sky,
cardinal voices sparking the trees.
Construction chinks and clangs down the street,
plagues my head, and I teeter
between nature and – not.
Cicadas vibrate the air, tires hum the road.
I drink tea, hear
Arkansas and Louisiana drowning
while we ache for rain.
A balance between too much
and not enough.
Air conditioners wheeze to life –
a deer startles from the yard’s edge.
I heap the feeders then flap away squirrels,
and a cat haunts chipmunks through vinca.
A pileated woodpecker and a hummingbird brunch
together. How many times do I miss this –
absorbed in the un-breathing shadows
of my mind? Today I will smile
at the towhee surprising goldfinches
and bluebirds scuffling for a spot,
the sun painting the woods a palette of greens,
a peace lily unfurling its bud.
KB Ballentine’s seventh collection, Edge of the Echo, was released May 2021 with Iris Press. Her earlier books can be found with Blue Light Press, Middle Creek Publishing, and Celtic Cat Publishing. Published in Atlanta Review and Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, among others, her work also appears in anthologies including I Heard a Cardinal Sing (2022), The Strategic Poet (2021), and Pandemic Evolution (2021). Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.
Sometimes you have to let go
of fear, release it like a balloon
from your freeing fingers.
What you have left isn’t emptiness.
Turn your hand so the palm
is toward the sky: a plea?
An offering?
What you breathe in is what you hold --
your very life.
Each invisible molecule awakens
to the energy of this earth:
every worm tunneling the soil,
every crocus lifting petals in spring,
daylilies nodding to the sun,
the nightingale serenading each moon.
Watch the balloon, embraced by blue,
consumed,
until even its speck is gone.
Threading Space
Crossing dusk is the first step:
right into the night where no stars are,
no moon to sigh your name.
Once through, there are no shadows –
only sounds of those singing around you.
Some songs have the low, flat notes of the blues
and others the anger of electric guitars
plucking each string over and over
until you want to screech a counterpoint.
But, if you keep going, over at the edges
where honeysuckle infuses the air,
you’ll hear a simple chord,
then voices lifting in unison,
drawn to this melody.
A crescendo of arpeggios resonates
then a clear soprano fills the darkness.
A chorus hums, echoes throughout this dim space and then –
just where the horizon unravels –
the severing of night.
Portions
Morning half gone when light
glosses the leaves like spun glass
and clouds heather the sky,
cardinal voices sparking the trees.
Construction chinks and clangs down the street,
plagues my head, and I teeter
between nature and – not.
Cicadas vibrate the air, tires hum the road.
I drink tea, hear
Arkansas and Louisiana drowning
while we ache for rain.
A balance between too much
and not enough.
Air conditioners wheeze to life –
a deer startles from the yard’s edge.
I heap the feeders then flap away squirrels,
and a cat haunts chipmunks through vinca.
A pileated woodpecker and a hummingbird brunch
together. How many times do I miss this –
absorbed in the un-breathing shadows
of my mind? Today I will smile
at the towhee surprising goldfinches
and bluebirds scuffling for a spot,
the sun painting the woods a palette of greens,
a peace lily unfurling its bud.
KB Ballentine’s seventh collection, Edge of the Echo, was released May 2021 with Iris Press. Her earlier books can be found with Blue Light Press, Middle Creek Publishing, and Celtic Cat Publishing. Published in Atlanta Review and Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, among others, her work also appears in anthologies including I Heard a Cardinal Sing (2022), The Strategic Poet (2021), and Pandemic Evolution (2021). Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.