I cannot sustain my attention in a math class,
or a hit television show, not on a business lecture,
or a religious sermon, not in a broadway musical
or a classical ballet.
But I could watch the shadows dance along these bricks for hours.
A little boy’s toy,
turned into a man’s treasure;
passed onto his young son,
and now put away to
emerge on a bright summer day
in the distant future for another.
books by Sibella Court
two quarters, a nickle and three pennies
very tiny bunny
a cup with pencils, pens, brushes and a knife
bracelet with green stones
birch bark
frosted glass mushroom and a sparrow’s skull
Recently, I was asked , “What makes you special?”
My first peaceful thought was simply, “nothing”.
And my second, “Does that make me special?”
Epilogues of improbable epilogues,
held in rebellious reflections
of all that still remains possible.
Passing graffiti in the desert, I wonder, who are the artists?
What person came to this barren, unforgiving land where one can drive for hours without passing a house, a business, another human—and decided to make their mark here in the middle of nothing?
Much later I realized, we are all artists of one kind or another but some of us are brave enough to paint the desert.
Downpour in the sunshine
A blue-eyed horse
Shooting stars in the city
Watching an eagle fly
Spotting a wolf in the wilderness
The northern lights
A red moon
Finding an iridescent feather
Are you racing down at dawn to flee a scorching fire—
or leaping up at twilight to meet a burning lover?
morning toast
the words “archery” and “acrid”
black cherries
summer storm clouds
old photographs
the sound of crows
purple roses
the time — 11:11
wooden boxes
postcards
silver bracelets
long good-byes
campfires
dreams of flying
used book stores
windy nights
chocolate
an old pair of jeans
pencil cases
helvetica and garamond
Walking along the rail tracks,
reckless empowerment grips me—
if I really wanted to, I could jump a train.
I start to count the ties,
lose track, and head back home.
spanishwoods 