The brook whispers of rocks
that cause rapids upstream,
tadpoles swimming in its mouth.
Water splashes my legs as I sit
upon a stone, beckoning ripples
to the creek's still surface.
It caresses me with water,
lets me know about its day,
shows me around its path.
I see slippery algae on sunken rocks,
mosquitoes looping above the bank,
ripples from grass blades' disturbance.
The brook releases me.
I dry myself and go home,
awaiting next night's return.
Cracked Ice
Tranquil fall has dropped
away, revealing the cracks of winter.
I peer out the window
at a scatter of branches
across dusty grey, splintering
the sky as ice on the road
splits, strained by travelling tires.
Snow coats the ground, whitewash,
layered thick and chipped
by rambling trails of bootprints.
The land can be repaired,
temporarily. The sun will pierce
the clouds and paint spring, lasting
until time crooks a pointed finger
and peels the seasons away.
Dance Of The Artist
On rainy days where the windowpane greys
match the untouched pulp of cheap canvas,
brushes seem to shuffle on their own
across the board. Their master, the artist,
has only to lead them.
This flickering-wind afternoon, lazy
and dull, entertainment had escaped us
like a sparrow hopping out of the rainfall.
The blank page lay between us. I glanced over.
Show me your art, I whispered, your craft.
He laid a steady hand upon the wooden shoulder
shaft, curled fingers around the neck, then waltzed.
Slow steps at first, slinking past the edges,
then a rapid swish into the center. Let the dance begin!
The paintbrush leapt across the canvas, ballroom dancer,
straw-knit clothing, slender frame. One-two, three-four,
graceful steps and twirling spirals. Tiptoe, tiptoe,
not a slip, watch him flip atop the spattered spots,
footprints curving, twisty trails of freckled color.
Streaks of scarlet, lovely green. The brush performed
a skip and hop, trip and flop, skidding slowly to a stop.
He bows.
The canvas stands, a hodgepodge of color
clashes. Purple squiggles across orange.
Red blossoms flounder in puddles of black.
A scrapbook collage of mismatched patches.
It isn't much, he mumbled, words oozing
like festering mud. Mud that seeped through
the bright confection, turning crimson rose
to dead brown, muddled the colors
back to rainy-day grey. His art, done,
but undone.
How To Press A Flower
Start young;
an unblemished blossom
beginning to flirt with the breeze.
Pick a victim,
pluck it from the thorns.
Shower her with water sweetened
by fertilizer. Let her bathe
in sunlight.
Kidnap the water-plump blossom
on a scorching afternoon.
Lay it on a paper bed,
peel away the leaves,
spread the petals,
and slip it between your books.
Leave her,
dew canals trickling away.
Close the cover.
She will be permanently pressed.
Return in a year
and she'll remain,
a withered, dulled membrane
of beauty.
Lion's Fang
A crowd in the grass
stands patiently together,
all petal-perfect beauties
with budding careers
and deep-rooted friends,
except for one-
one scrawny, short woman
in blonde dreadlocks.
She stands, solitary,
wondering how she can be
named for the deadly
fang of the lion
but still be ignored
like a lowly weed.
Preserving Snow
Slush collects at the curb,
clumped like hair
gathered in a loose bun.
You track each snow's fade
and movement, straining to see
white in the grey piles.
I try to preserve you,
pluck smoke-dulled hairs
from your scalp and frost
your face with icy lotions.
But you still decay, tire
tracks lining your skin,
waiting to be swept aside
like old snow.