Poetry by Benjamin Green
Like the sleep of a bird
on its roost, tossing
in the heat of sunlight,
the old man lets the
canyon do its work.
A bead of sweat
from his skull, tugged by the moon
and pushed by wind, slides
down his forehead, nose, and
he tastes it on his lips.
He lets the sky
do its work.
A piece of rock
calves from the mesa wall;
a small cloud of dust,
a flock of ravens chortling,
seven of them, black,
sun-glared, circling, morphing
the dust into a cloud
that brings rain.
He lets the water do
its work.
He clings to mystery
like redemption.
Benjamin Green is the author of twelve books including His Only Merit (Finishing Line Press). At the age of sixty-nine, he hopes his new work articulates a mature vision of the world and does so with some integrity. He resides in Jemez Springs, New Mexico.
