LOVE AMONG THE HERONS

Great Blue Herons

are a very familiar shore bird

where I live.

They perch on fishing piers

and fish in the marshes.

They wade along shorelines

and nest in tall pine trees.

They fly overhead

with a startling, raucous cry.

They are as beautiful and strange

as they are familiar.

In recent weeks

I have found myself beguiled

by a particularly dashing bird.

Coy and seductive,

ready to pose for as long as I aim my camera…

Of course I am entranced.

In the morning –

turning just so in the bright-lit water –

he casts a shadow

on his handsome feathered back.

In the evening

he leads me among the pier posts,

shows me his mirrored image.

He fills my mind

and causes my heart to linger

in heron-land.

No wonder I danced with him

on the surface of my most recent pot.

No wonder I shamelessly lounged

in the marshes he frequents…

kicking my legs in the air

and  basking in his presence.

No wonder I celebrate my love

for the constant bird

by bringing my heart to my art.

WANTING

Week before last, as I thought of the upcoming gala for the Walter Anderson Museum of Art, I contemplated doing a sculpture for the silent auction. They are always popular, especially those that suggest the artist himself…with his signature hat and some creature or bird as a symbol of his love for nature.

I was ill that week, trying to recover from a urinary tract infection that struck hard over the weekend. But I seemed to be recovering. I had to recover…with the paper doll exhibit coming up, not to mention a book signing at Barnes & Noble and the WAMA artist’s party itself at which donations would be accepted.

Yes, I contemplated a sculpture

with others in mind.

What would please was foremost

 as I placed my basket of wire

on the floor by my chair.

In my hands the wire writhed a bit

as I struggled to ignore gut-feelings

and keep to my plan.

The truth of the matter was this:

that my own deep wanting

was striving

to reach my hands,

while my mental and habitual tendencies

stubbornly carried on.

Instead of a woman

resting voluptuously in her naked solitude,

I brought forth my father:

the celebrated artist

whose fame had made him

so in demand.

Never mind that the living man

would have wanted his daughter

to be true to herself.

Above all,

to be true to herself…

The figure got done, and I leaned him against the black drape to take his picture. Otherwise, he remains unfinished. The Gala is over. And when I look at Walter now, I dream up ways to get him out of the box. Or is it the woman I want to get out of the box? Maybe both of us – Daddy and me – finally free of external agendas. I can easily see my daddy proudly walking right out of that box. And his daughter – the woman – the sculpture that I truly am wanting to make of myself… I see her reclining peacefully, smiling as the world rushes by.

I