A Rabbit in the Porch Light

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

There in the newly mown grass
in the shadow cast by freshly lit porch light,
something, something simple has put itself there as

a reminder that we are not alone.

Big brown eyes.
It is cordial, perhaps,

beautiful and non-threatening,
chewing on clover and listening for whatever
it is the arriving night wants to say;
things that we cannot dare imagine because we have

forgotten the value of trying to hear and

be heard – though our survival used to depend

on it – well, actually, it still does –
and so here I am in awe of little things,

simple little things, that haven’t forgotten

themselves, nor given up hope for our souls.
What do I do when I realize the rabbit feasting

at dusk understands things that I fear

well enough to expose himself in spite of them?

Certainly, I could learn, couldn’t I?

And there he goes, hopping,
moving deeper into the darkness
where life or death awaits.
He’s listening for it,
I know,

but he doesn’t stop his vigil with himself.
So maybe I could soften,

maybe I could,
and move a little further away from the light.

Vulnerability:

flight, fight, or freeze.

Haven’t we been here long enough to find

a better way?

I could turn the porch light off,
and step into the warm summer air,
and undress,
and listen with the pricked hairs of my body

to whatever is out there,

whatever wants to come close.

The switch is greyed by finger prints.

The door knob is round and cold.

The hinges, creak.

Certainly,

I must

take the risk

to open.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 

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Gifting You Roses

Image origin unknown

I have twelve in my hand, yellow and tight.
On long stems, green and wildly thorned.
I have captured the sun
and cast the warm glow of its light on memories

and truths and tomorrows.
Gratitude might be the answer to all of our questions.
I am grateful.
Do you know this day?
Do you know it, truly?
We cannot repeat miracles.  What arrives,

arrives only once.

Do you see these petals?

Each is a never again, and I’m thankful for the opportunity

to trace the silken thread of their veins.

How can we not but look upon each as a miracle?
Yes, gratitude must be the answer to all our questions.
Today, I have put my nose against

the window pane aside your front door.
I am carrying twelve yellow roses

because.

Yes,

because.

© 2013-2019/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Fawn

Ima

Photo: Jamie K. Reaser

Is any human heart

naïve to the texture of

abandonment?

Here I am snugged in

tall grasses and sunspots,

Still but for my newly-boned rib cage

and the short-bodied flowers

that play flower games in exhalations.

I could be here all day;

What joy there is in bird song,

and the tremendous leap of

shiny

green

grasshoppers,

and soil – how it smells.

I am of this place

and its daily-recounted secrets.

I ask you:

"Please don’t save me."

I am busily laying in this meadow,

saving you.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 

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Song for the Reindeer

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

For CB and all those who re-member the songs

I owe you my life.

No man can become a man

without otherness.

You are other.

And, you are me.

We are of the same

hoof and bone.

When I consume your body,

you are the knife and the spoon

and the tongue of the ancestors.

How otherwise starved and naked I would be.

Cradle and sled,

You’ve born me

into this world

and across the miles

that no one else cared witness.

My stride is a learned migration

into my self.

Only here can I know flight.

I may be the breath,

But you are the sound of my soul:

This soft rhythm of the taiga.

These branches snapping in the wind.

The keepers drumming at the threshold

of the world

in which we are true brothers.

Blood lines. Life lines.

There is only one world.

And, this music.

Yes, this music ~

I’ve come to understand

is a Man’s initiation.

How could I be without you?

How could I ever be without you?

© 2013-2014/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" (www.hiraethpress.com) 

(Feel free to share. Poetry is meant to move.)

Melting

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

You can hear it now:

the melting.

It is the composition being

performed by droplets

in metal downspouts

and off the single gutter that

should have been cleaned out

in a more timely manner.

The puddles are growing,

wider and deeper,

and I think also thicker

as the snow releases

things it caught and froze –

Mostly plant debris.

Is debris an appropriate term?

It seems judgmental in some way.

And the mountain streams coarse

more loudly than before the storm.

Has it occurred to you that streams need

otherness in order to carry on a good

conversation?

Rocks and logs and shallows and banks

and submergent vegetation

work particularly well.

I love it when a stream uses me.

What else has the capacity to melt?

I’ll leave it to you to make your own list.

All I ask is that you do this:

Put

your

own

name

on

it.

© 2013/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Snow Days: Reflections by Candlelight" (a work in progress)