Poems by Lucy Griffith
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Attention
by Lucy Griffith
Tucked within the Edwards Plateau, on a songbird flyway, Lucy sleeps 100 feet above the Guadalupe River on a ranch: home to bobcat, fox, turkey, armadillo.
Home— the place of attention.
Where you know that swirl in the road
marks the dust bath of a jackrabbit.
Or that a particular Canyon Wren ends
her descending aria with a startling yee-haw.
That on our longest of days,
the sun retires on the breast
of the northwest horizon
and begins a steady southern swing
to the little knoll where we mark its winter twin.
Our lives held in this gentle cup,
palmed within an arc of light.
© Lucy Griffith
Dust Diaries
by Lucy Griffith
From Canary Summer 2020
Deep in dry times, when my heart thirsts,
I outwit the drought with early walks
seeking secrets,
covert stories in the dirt.
The forked prints of fawns,
3-D calligraphy,
a swirl in the dust
marks the mating of buntings.
Deep scratches, a spot of blood,
paint a nocturnal chase, seize, capture.
In fine sand, scorpions
sign with dots and a long dash.
A palm-print the size of a three-year-old’s
heralds the shrewd raccoon
who can taste with his hand,
open a jar.
Each track, distinct as a fingerprint,
the trot of fox,
dinosaur drag of armadillo’s tail,
two tripods of turkey.
Right there, the soft gouge of rabbit’s shoulder
diving for a dusty bath.
© Lucy Griffith
Thoughts from the Trough
by Lucy Griffith
From Canary Summer 2020
The last soak of summer,
in the horse trough I float.
Drink in the calm, that salve
for sun-chapped skin, invite reflection.
Find in each cloud a friend and think—
I am made of water, drift in water.
Jealous of edges of clouds,
a drowsy froth
that vanishes, or
winks at me
with a sundog,
a momentary rainbow.
Lying back, I track the vultures
with a long patience—
those joy riders way, way up, against the meringue,
no hope for carrion, just because they can.
No music for me, but the chickadee.
I lie still as a sigh. Then,
roadrunner stops by,
a barcode with wings.
Tail up, tail down,
He is bound to the ground.
Launches, pins a bug,
clacks his castanets and is gone.
© Lucy Griffith
Two Grey Foxes
by Lucy Griffith
From Canary Spring 2019
Both of us crave the crepuscular—
that crack in time at the edge of dawn.
We emerge from our foxholes.
Yours, carpeted with dry leaves,
the scent of your kits. Mine, a nest of
down, fragrant with soap.
You trot your route, reading the morning
with your nose. I wander mine, listening
for woodpeckers tapping their drums.
Our trails cross. You crouch, stare,
your ruff glazed with gold, backlit by sunrise.
So close, I watch you smell me.
A deep breath, you breathe me in again.
My breath joins yours, swells, falls in rhythm.
I jump the track of my life—into your slim body.
You into mine.
You take on my day, return to the den for
another cup of coffee window-side.
I step on your path, leap,
weightless
into the brush.
© Lucy Griffith