The wind brushes whispering dry paper bark –
it tastes like the footprints of bees,
tastes like foaming petal smoke,
and drifts of antique yellow blossoms
ride like kisses on a gnarled green branch.
Bitter sap flows, hidden beneath creamy soft buds
sweet pollen drifts to the skies.
Almond tree in bloom.
This poem just blew me away!
“I began ‘Shadowbox’ during a morning writing session with a friend where we took different end-line words (horses, something, decisions) and wrote toward them. Not controlling which end word would come next allowed for our own buried obsessions to rise up and fill the void. I love the term shadowbox for its multiple meanings, as in shadowboxing with the self or in reference to the dreamlike assemblages of Joseph Cornell where memory and history are juxtaposed to create surreal landscapes of the mind.”
I came, a-wearying
story in my hand,
not realizing that most folks had it in mind
to go to the movies instead.
So, I drank iced water,
bruising my past in the process,
and I hurried to make it to the party
before it was over
and the doors were locked.
I walked for hours that night
Dry and restless,
the dust shaken from my feet.
The quick laughed with the dead,
and it was no surprise to me
when I found
no room at the inn.
I think I need to stop by Hidden Falls today, to visit the cathedral poplars and their murmuring by the river. June mornings, where you listen to sprinkling music of poplar leaves and become young again, shoulders loosening on each breath of the moist loamy sand-filled sun air. Armskin smelling like summers spent dirt-streaked and skinned kneed. Let’s forget that step toward the grey, for a moment, and conjure birdsong moving over skin. Down the sand let’s walk to the clearing by the river, when all the body was legs and belly and breath, warm and humming with the light of a June summer morning.