Full of Fire
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Even as a we sludge through gristle and gravity,
the imagination craves bodies—bones plaited with muscle,
changeful eyes, unpredictable, ungoverned—full of fire. Our song
is our well-being, guided by the air, guided by righteousness,
thrown into oceans, rippling over ponds–
if you do one thing in your life,
let your life create a stir.

Autumn is Singing
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Beyond the Nazareth hills
the drowsy summer nods
in and out of sleep,
her eyes drooping after so much
heat, and so much rain.
She wants to stay awake
for one last searing, but autumn
is singing her into dreaming
of a different kind
of flame.

Constellations of Destiny
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

In her crib she looks up at the mobile—
a little solar system in the air. She moves
her hands in her spasmodic way—
they look uncontrolled, senseless—but look closer—
she’s tracing lemniscates with her fingers,
she’s inscribing galaxies above her,
constellations of destiny, placing stars
in their places, making the sign of the cross—
her eyes wide with wonder and authority,
her coos of satisfaction, her powers unlimited,
her mind as wide as the world, ever
and ever dreaming of more.

Murmurations of the Mind
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Starlings fly into becoming–
a thousand magnetic-shavings
loosed into the air—surging,
billowing, rotating in on themselves—exploding
out–smooth as breath—like the murmurations
of our minds, of our imaginations
breaking open
into the sky.

Autumn is Close
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Autumn is close.
She’s already spreading gold
through the veins of the leaves.
She’s pulling corn-husk-scented winds
from her basket, and tossing them
into the sky; leaves have begun falling—
the golden ones blazing their descent down,
and she smiles knowing we all will do the same
in the great letting go.

The Growing Hunger Home
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

There’s something about the journey–
the stepping out of your door into everything.
There’s something about observing, like
Goethe observed, or how a dog sniffs the air.
There’s something about merging
into the trees, and not wishing for anything,
with no need for longing to guide you forwards.

Having lived in Philadelphia for so many years,
there’s something about walking the city streets–
the rush of people, the car horns startling the air,
the scaffolding where more apartments
are being built, the business boarded up—
that’s when the longing comes,
and the growing hunger home.

Wind into Wind
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The Tibetan bell hangs outside my door.
I ring it when I leave and when I return.
This morning, I rang it softly,
so as to not wake the neighbors.
The sound still swelled, like a wave,
then merged wind into wind,
perfectly blending with the melancholy coo
of the morning dove hidden in the trees,
and as the sound began to fade, like mist
from the Bethlehem hills, everything in my life
suddenly made sense, and so I took my walking stick
and started out into the day.

Lifted into Eden
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The starlings lifted as one from the telephone lines
along 611 South, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
They cooperated into lemniscates, contracted into rippling circles,
opened into sky, skimmed the ground, blossomed into spirals, surged
in praise, swirled in layers, formed manta rays and whales,
then morphed at once into a twist of string, resolved
into a snake, poured, like sand in an hourglass, then loosened
into the curves of a woman’s body, then a billowing cloak,
then pulled apart, now reassembled, now a smudge of charcoal,
then black ink swirling in water, then subsided, like
a sigh made visible, until, after heaven, they were absorbed into the trees.

There is a Heron Who Visits the Field
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

There is a heron who visits the field
where the Clydesdales graze.
They lift their heads to watch it drift

down from the sky, folding its prehistoric wings
as it lands. The Clydesdales give her a nod,
their muscles twitching, like ripples in a pond,

and then they go back to grazing the wet grass,
and the heron stands on one leg for hours at a time,
its neck curled into its shoulders, its eyes closed,
listening to the day.

A Collective of Wings
For the Faculty of River Valley
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

On my morning walk, I got to wondering
whether when I say: “Good morning,” to one starling
I’m actually saying “Good morning,” to all starlings.
Same with the robins, the wrens, the blue jays.
It would make sense that it would be so—that they
live one sharing of thoughts and heartbeats, one sky,
one future, one rhythm.  And as I round the bend
where the cornfield sways with the sun on its mind,
a flock of starlings banks left, then right, then lifts high
into the air.  And I can’t help but smile at the miracle
of how we do the same.  Look at us—every morning—
lifting from our separate branches, homing in towards
the same field–one daring, collective of wings.