Snowbells
A poem by Teya Priest Johnston

Snowbells

Yesterday I hit a tiny bird.
The soft plunk made awful by my passing,
the feather jumble flung away,
in a whirlwind baffled by a great loss.

A yellow animal, cat-like, slinks
west to east across the morning field
and no sooner than I think,
I want so much forgiveness,
it’s gone, behind the fir trees.

Today no jets, break the sky,
and a fallen mossy log
is another world preening with spring.

May we all receive more tolerance
than we believe we deserve,
and if we don’t, we won’t
be surprised will we.

But settled on the side of blue mountain
little snowbells with heavy snowbell heads
bend to the clover like villagers klatch
and clover is always optimistic
and living its best day ever,
while snowbells hang listening all day,
with nodding alabaster caps in sun
or shade.

There is little time, the snowbells counsel,
while the clover sing’s happy birthday.

About the Author:

Teya Priest Johnston lives with her partner and three happy dogs on a mountainside in Washington state. Her poems have appeared in Tidepools, Passager, Tiny Seed Journal, Craven Arts and several anthologies.

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