[Ten moments of silence.]
I fell in love with the full,
fluffy heaps of white on sidewalks,
the icicles that clung
to gutters and railings.
My mountains changed;
They're blue and ridged now.
The summers bleed the pavement
like steaming gray socks.
Shade does not offer solace
from moist, viscous air. In the afternoons,
if luck chances by, the humidity lofts
into thick purple clouds
and rain slaps hot pavement.
I can breathe.
The carrot leaves
fell from gold foliage
like drops of sunset.
I closed my eyes and saw twelve wild turkeys
gaggle cross the yard, a doe freeze,
framed by the window, ineffable
bright-lined spiders in the bathtub.
Is it the hoar-frost winters that bring to mind
poetry? There is no Parnassus in Virginia,
only weed-filled fields and roads
that twine like filaments through mountains.
White-blossom dogwood and poison ivy
have me of two minds; Could I have one
without the other, please?
No, no thank-you. I'll come back
some other time.