swallowtail  

Harvey S. Mozolak

worm slug snake

somehow its naked family

yet removed several times

and four times syllabicated

caterpillar

yet a crawler

hairy

by fur tufts and dangles

on the porch

dead

crushed it will ooze an odd hue

pus green or decaying yellow

the thing will be difficult to move

this handless finger

without distaste

or the sweep of a broom

later that day

in the garage near the pile of empty boxes

toward the front of the cooling car’s grill

in perfect condition

a ochre and black butterfly

wings open as they were in flight

from flower to flower

beyond the open door

on its side fallen to the grey concrete

the two vestigial hairs that probed the air

for movement

silent

the twin tiny hands that once

pushed the breeze

to taste from petal to petal

still

picked up and placed

on the grass

it leaves the powder of its wings

on my palm thumb and index tip

a palette with which to brush

a word cocoon

gathering feathers of light

Harvey S. Mozolak

my tawny dog

with catlike whiskers

but don’t tell him that

who thinks he is bigger than he is

likes to pull together afghans rugs pillows

towels and clothing left on the floor

raking them by paw

into a gathered pile

I have heard it said it is a nesting instinct

so when the small sliver of sunlight

comes through the dining room window

and falls onto the carpet

he attempts to enlarge it

by scratching at its sides

to make a wider warmer bed

no wonder

because he may have seen me

stretch an phone photo

it is the beginning slice of autumn

I too wish to scrape away

the starting fall of leaves

and gather leaving light

thin as it is

into a pile of summer still

a warm weekend

and more

now that the tree nests

are empty

and the dog on walks

finds fewer wings to startle

nail-less reverence

Harvey S. Mozolak

a few trees

among the many

perpendicular

to their roots and ground

a few trunks

among those who Babel upward

fluttering leaves

loose like senseless tongues

flapping winter twigs

like lifeless wings

at angels’ flying flames

a few from the forest

bend

at the weight of the world

attempting to bind down

the weight of glory

bend they do

against the gravity of God

engrained and hammered in hate

hatcheted from heaven

for the burning noon

sun beginning the three days

of the Father’s only begotten

stump