| June 03, 2010

Your mind wants to say

a logging road is where the dead walked,

winch and flatbed for a prosthesis,

good redwood makes good fencing

for all those good neighbors.

It's the spray of starflowers

that ruins everything. Salal braiding edges

grows inward, as you walk deeper.

Taste of salmonberry, vulnerable sweetness

of thimbleberry shock your mouth.

Shoots and seedlings with their

grand new schemes, resettle, climbing

stump to sky. See how time distilled

is shade? Ivy, feral grasses, tan oaks may

be unwanted, but by whom? The three petals

of a late trillium, a pool of white light 

blooming in graveled mud, say

this path is sacred too.

Comments (1)

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Truly wondrous description evokes senses...I could hear soft footfalls and smell the moist fecundity; even taste that salmonberry. Bravo! That you from a momentarily deskbound ofttime fellow trespasser. Most sincerely appreciate your poetry, Kimberly. Thank you. Dawn

Posted by Dawn on 06/14/2010 at 4:49 PM
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