It is the Past’s supreme italic
makes the Present mean—
~ Emily Dickinson, “Glass was the Street— in Tinsel Peril” (#1518)
My cities and estates are made of smoke
and poems, my résumé laced with ample
culs-de-sac. You must have known
I could not trade my mountains
for plains so desolate in the heat.
I longed for the absolving rain, erasure
of missteps: poor choices, my rush
to cash the currency before its prime.
But now the sight of any small
tenderness moves more than grief
that runs its salt into the soil:
a flower smaller than my finger-
nail bursts white upon the sill
then shrivels; and yet it gifts
its fragrance like a signature.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Restless
- Appropriate
- Inhabit
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- Lengthen
- Libretto
- Smoke
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- Tendril
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Disintegrate
- Stage Directions
- Monsoon
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Evidence
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song
- Wintering