Underfoot, Shredded Petals
We sheep across winter’s grayscape to arrive, wool sodden and mucked, neutered, at spring’s sludge pond. There’s enough wet to raise the almost-dead: blossom from bud, caterpillar from egg, bee from hexagonal hutch. Drowned for months, the evergreen roots have been silently screaming. What silk scarves are concealed in tree sleeves? What disappearing trick will vanish the memory of morbid hours? Tucked in our pockets: needles, black lichens, moss. In the distance, Mt. Baker turns its face to the sun. Come migration season, even a caged bird will face its intended direction. Overhead, a chorus of swallows. Overhead, swarms of them travelling by starlight. by Dayna Patterson Dayna is the winner of our March 2018 poetry contest! Her poem will be on display at the Poem Booth through the end of the quarter.
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Silence
Come on Whisper your truth To the clouds, shape shifters Into the owl's ready dark hole The light. by J S Nahani If Sloths Danced About
If circles were squares, if peaches were pears, if the broom stayed home with the moon; then dreams would be real, then drab would have zeal, and death wouldn’t come far too soon. If bottoms were tops, if straight downs were round ups, then snow would be common in June. If all in were all out, if sloths danced about, then sprinkles would be a monsoon. If earthrise were seen by a non-human being, if you played all day in your sleep-- where yawns were bright lights, and fawns flew like kites, then we’d all have hug bugs to keep. If passion were pity, if country were city, if chiefs could not utter a peep; then a scowl would be fun, snacks impeccably done, and we’d give away all that we reap. by John Green The Wayfarers
beginning to dawn blue barely lines the horizon golden sun nips the tips of craggy mountain peaks five old growth firs four wayfarers stand on a beach last stand of trees spines and trunks silhouette black by Lynn Geri |