Laura McCoy

The unrelenting violin of the wind in oaks, And then the silent flap of herons,Each feather outlined by grey-sky pencil.I feel the wrinkles forming down my forehead.I lie in the cooling grass until Everything turns deep green and blue.The wind slips a strand of hair across my face,But when I notice, I crawl back in my skin. You see, each leaf with its veins and webbingCombines to itself and others a quilt To blanket this odd murky beauty.Perhaps the herons come here for company,Stalking delicately through the grass,Patting each other’s feathers measuredly. When I nestle against grooved bark,The scene overwhelms and I shut my eyesIn the age of grains of sand and time;A hook reaches in and pulls me outAnd drops me on the inside of my window. Even now trancelike, I see how I fit – or don’t,With and without windows, or mirrors, or glazed eyes.But someone must whittle the violins.