“pleumōn”

by Jeff Burt

for Linnaea

She has small lungs,

like mountain lakes

that appear to have a dark-blue depth

but stay shallow from end to end,

that means she jogs instead of runs,

can submerge but not stay under

in the coral reefs, too short of air

to dive, her burst of breath

not a storm’s torrent but more a wind

that ruffles leafs

but does not sway the branch.

She does not have foreshortened joy.

She dwells, learns 

in moderation what others miss

by whizzing by, 

the angles of bleached buildings

against the shadows of time, 

the swallows breaking tufts from cattails 

with the slightest puff, 

the manner in which a cloud takes

a field of wildflowers 

and sunlight gives it back.

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has contributed to Rabid Oak, Williwaw Journal, Red Wolf Journal, Heartwood, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review Poetry Prize. Twitter: @jeffburtmth