A strand of agates,
Pearls in a pile of sand.
An island, desert,
in a sea of softening asphalt.
I run my fingers through
the beaded rock.
It feels like water rushing
through a hand pump.
It belies my preoccupation
Of rock, tree, grass.
A yawp of a crow,
Sooty black against denim blue,
(smokey at the horizon)
startles my pseudo reverie.
The heart dances
outside my chest
I push
it back to beating.
I don’t know this tree.
Its leaf is not familiar.
It bothers me,
I don’t know its name.
The serrated edge
of the leaf,
rough on my fingertips,
strokes my mind.
I deliberately rub
it against my skin,
wondering if the green
of late summer,
rich in vibrant life,
will tattoo my epidermis.
The chloroplasts,
plant blood,
oozes,
sticky in its morphology.
I need to:
Focus,
Grasp.
Hear,
inside your head.
Will the words band,
in a strand
and jewel the tongue?
A kiss of words
pass the lips,
mouth my desires.
Plant morphology:
the nodes of a relationship-
leaf, root, or branch?
The living organism.
I avert my eyes
so I can’t see the answer.
Perhaps this prairie plant,
native grass,
will roil its seeds
and quit the wind.
I crush it between my fingers.
Rubbing scents, releasing
emotions for the future.
A tease of a touch,
A start,
a brake,
a change of attire.
Under your voice hides the wind.
It startles me.
The leaf rips,
"x"ed to mark the spot.
I wished upon a star.
It streaked across your skin
on a Kansas night in summer.
It yielded nothing
but a mummy of a leaf.
Releasing the heart
from the chest,
the rock from the sand,
the seed from the grass.
The west wind drives
us onward,
We yield
to limestone fences,
sunken
and laid upon the beds of grass,
Matted in disuse.
A sculpture of a Zephyred wind,
dedicated to our youth.
In later years
consummated in dreams ,
caught up on our horizons.
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