*published in Garfield Lake Review, 2021
Can I see you ?
I ask, silently,
into Sky
I see speckled breast,
a flash of red wing.
vibrato in the air, my heart
Where does the light go -
or should I say -
who takes it?
The green is in my eyes,
and on the bottoms
of my bare feet
And still -
the Red Dirt calls
to me:
paint me across your cheeks
and across your breast and
down your thighs
Will I take flight then?
Can I see you?
Can I see?
Can I see
- a sigh -
me?
*published in Garfield Lake Review, 2021
the silver moon
dips below the edge of the velvet lilac cloud
blush rises
in the sky from the points of the trees
at times I feel painted too
and gilded
by the last rays of the sun
then the night descends
and the shadows grow deep
and I remember all the words you have said
and all the words you have denied
tiny silver moons leave glittering trails along my blushing cheeks
*Honorable Mention in the Carolina Woman Magazine Writing Contest*
In blades of tender grass
and opulent black
raspberry bushes edging the woods, I look
for myself.
Barefoot, I pad along the steaming road,
incense of sun-ripened pine
filling my breast, these green giants incline
toward me with every zephyr, benevolent
nudging toward an exploration
I cannot see.
My hands and lips are
sticky with nectar berry,
I'm green at the knees,
jewels of dew drops and
slugs garnish my legs: glittering
stockings. Tiny sun-yellow
cowslips and Queen Anne's lace
crown my hair, speckle my skin.
I am neither girl
nor child
nor lost
nor found,
yet
embraced and subsumed.