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
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