Harbingers
       

Always the small before the large,
the early crocus before the full-bloomed garden,
the single firefly until the thousand lights.

That man in the pink Hawaiian shirt
and those clunky snowmobile boots—
I don't know why he seems so lost
standing on the sidewalk in Hardwick, VT
but yes, I would like to say to him
thank you for making an appearance,
and more brilliance please.

It's like the priest who walks into a bar
with a frozen mackerel under his arm
yelling Fish, sure, I give you fish!
while every astonished eye waits
for the loaves to appear, and maybe the wine.

Sometimes the earth's a desert of promise,
the world-soul damaged, dream-cities ruined.
Other times you wish to keep living in it
to see the parade by your door.

For instance, just this morning
one robin, then a hundred in the yard
pecking at the grass for seeds,
fat city for a thing with feathers.

And here's the street corner mime
ventriloquizing through a dummy
who also seems to be a mime!—
but isn't there a place for it,
the unheard words making us suddenly think
of the many that might be spoken?

Haven't we imagined the end of the drought
by feeling one droplet of rain?
Or wanted to paint the whole town red
by seeing a sun-streak at dusk?

I mean, here's a pot of gold:
don't we always look for the rainbow
to travel back to where everything started?

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Copyright © 2015 Gregory Djanikian All rights reserved
from Boulevard
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission