Up from the ditches, weeds lush and green make a mockery of the stagnant waters they came from. Robins with their red-breasted double buttoned suits, fastidious about their worms after the first spring rain floods them to the surface. Their deep, earthy musk like loam, rich and moist, mingles with the new mist forming in the center of the road, just a fledgling fog. Forsythia in full push of the season, with its woody arms bear sparks of butter yellow sun, warming the damp of evening. In the glow of houses, with soft porch lamps lit, rocks painted as ladybugs huddle at bases of mailboxes, giving rise to good omens and letters of love to bless this house. An old woman shuffles to the screen door to watch me pass when her faithful Lab loosens a hollow bark of warning; wrinkled hand rests on his black head, wet nose nudges up in gratitude. My eyes become set to the treetops, their black lines intricate and fierce like pumping arteries that carry the blood of spring, and I stare off until my vision goes blind in twilight's grip. Again, I look for you in this days ending, wanting to speak to you of how mists rise and nights fall; how birds dance and puff in their mating time; the preciousness of buds on trees still brilliant green in shadow's depth; the smell of dirt and how someday we will nap in it one last time when the leaves of our lives peter out into obscurity. But what is settled for, begrudgingly, are tales told to road signs and curved double yellow lines with their boundaries and halts, until the moment of longing is gone.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Kendra Steiner Editions 5/08