Friday, August 18, 2017

Untitled 96

photo: Dana Twining

i stand at your door with my dreams in my hands
afraid to knock
the art of my face is too well known
the stories in my eyes already read
and you
so intent on plucking the fruits of your fantasies
have no time
for the dreams in my hands
     crushed now and broken
or the love in my heart
     aged like fine wine, untasted
you have not even seen me in years
though i lie beside you every night
to become the woman of your dreams

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Pickin Time

I got here before the bears
the birds
the children
with their endless dark-stained mouths
            and hands
but not before the angry chipmunk
barking his displeasure at my disturbance
berries red
and black
and ripe for picking
drop an offering now and then
to the outraged victim of my theft

I fill the basket with sundrawn sweetness
clip the rhubarb, visioning pies
the peas play hide n seek
seem to ripen by the second
taunt my questing fingers
ineffable greeny-grey
cloaked among the leaves spring forth
by moment
laughing at my clumsiness
my inarticulate pleas for abundance

scent of first dawn rising
in mist from rain-blackened earth
a scent from when the world was new
air clear of exhalations mechanical
warmed by fugitive sun’s rays
hiding benediction of the moon
with rosy translucent fingers
waking the birds with gentle touch
the earthsweet silence suffused with incomparable perfume
– what IS that scent? –

like dreams
like prayers
like the ghost of memory 

© 2017 pamela twining