I enter between the thorny vines
But refuse their love as they entwine
My legs and elbows desperately
Whispering a heartbroken plea.
Ignoring them, I grasp their fruit
My blood-red stained hands clutch the loot
With my arms scratched red and raw,
I pop their babes between my jaws.
The succulent juice stains my lips
But as I turn, my sweater rips
Thorns hold fast to my shoelaces,
Hair, sleeves, socks and other places.
I cannot exit from between the vines;
They refuse me as their love entwines.
I cry and struggle desperately,
But am ignored my whispered plea.
My puppy pulled me downcreek. Bare
trees dancing in white bloom, first fair
day of spring. She dashed in puppy care-
lessness of water leaping the stone stair-
steps, splashing rain back into air.
Such a water-works of sparkle-flair!
I aimed my camera, clicked. But where
was Loki in all that flash and flare,
movement lens-struck, vision-glare
of sunstreak silver-sable, dash & dare?
Here's no puppy photo I could share.
Some mythic mis-shape from the lair
of life-light streaks escaped. Beware
of eye-tricks and wish-blinks. Stare
into memory and dream. She's there.
FOR THE MOMENT
Just stretch. You had a flying mane
of hair once; you raced over plain
and ridge. You're never young again
but sunlight's ageless, and falling rain.
Just breathe. Earth and sky remain,
and rattle-song of sandhill crane.
A summer's moon-snow on the lawn,
and spring grass brittled to the awn;
a traffic-savaged three-legged fawn
you couldn't save—each regret drawn
across the midnight. Then comes dawn
with promises. Its minutes yawn
and stretch to hours. Old wives pawn
their flowerpots as salmon spawn
and die. White petals are the faun
of woods enchanted and then gone.
—Michael Cluff, Corona
In the shadows of some Septembers,
it was a good month for water,
ash trees and polliwogs
before their turning into adulthood.
The dogs would live in tentative
accord with felines
which walked on two as well as four paws
as the boiling skies reached into reserves
and dumped all it onto the plains.
The bamboo and begonia would seek recourse
yet would reside with it
until October or even November
came along and shade would be more.
And cats darted as they were disposed to do
between a choice only they and the ash
and the frogs of the new coulees
rejoiced and indulged in
Will lose its blossoms
Already, the branches
Move in the wind
Like a young girl
Shaking out her hair
In the long grasses of spring.
As though she knows
This must be
The last time.
By the way, if you type "Catherine Weaver" into the white search bar at the very top left-hand corner of this blog, today's post will appear; if you scroll down, you'll see a wonderful photo of Jane and Cat, along with some of her previous poems that appeared on Medusa.
In the twilight, the hills of the valley take on a lavender tint—the deep blue of the sky mixing with the rosy glow of the sun's last escaping rays and reflecting off the golden grass; and somehow this melange gives the entire landscape a royal hue, blessing it with a glowing purple kiss.