POEM: Single Point Perspective

In the distance stands the white grace of birches
smudged as any blush on a daughter's bleached cheeks
against the scalp of small hills that mount
the purple scrape of horizon.

The bronchial tree tips &
cigar-like leaves brush against staccato sky.
These are bony hands that hold hollowed-boned
birds, just as any grandmother might, with swaddling voice
singing: "you are mine, yes - you are mine!"
The oranges and mauves perform their acrobatic tricks
while I mindfully sip the grainy coffee I am so fond of.

Beyond the tree-line is the corpulent river where
waters swollen from the northern melt –
rut on in guttural moaning, in the background,
choking on what ice remains
& even now, is always receiving.