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
waiting
to become the woman of your dreams

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

moment

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