A Language of Creatures by Meg Smith

Everything becomes common to itself -- 

a stick, denuded of bark, singular, and gray;

a leaf, fallen, its tawny fingers curled inward.

into the clearing, each being comes forward -- 

a cat, a fox, a snake, in colors of spring.

Each one becomes common, not through words.

A code inside spirals up like a fresh vine, 

every turn, every step, a milestone.

Eyes flash, burning in a circle of fire. 

But it is time to look skyward, toward their

fine, secret home of stars.

---

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass.

Her poetry has appeared in The Cafe Review, Poetry Bay, Beliveau Review, Raven Cage, Celtic Beat, and many more publications and anthologies.

She is the author of five poetry books. Her first short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor, is due out in fall 2020. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.