honeysuckle vine trailing
magically across my nose
intricately mixes with fresh grass
feeding greedily on
subtle hints of afternoon storms. My
window is down, my left arm is
surfing air, sun hot on my cheek,
so quick I am again a fresh new driver
heading to the pool,
free, oh so free.
I hope you enjoy the following poem by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson (taken from her book, Where Children Live, 1958)
I cannot see the brown earth turned
Upon white petals gently blown
Upon the ground where I should spade
My garden plot. Have I not learned
I must not waste one precious day
Of spring? Somehow it will not stay
And wait for seeds that should be sown –
Why MUST I let my heart be swayed
By fallen petals of yesterday –
Why can’t they gently blow away?
let me save you some trouble:
we will end.
Maybe then you won’t cry when I leave you
for a some day with delicious edges.
We will begin like all others, with a wink.
As light stretches long shadows, we
will gaze beyond a mirror,
nodding to our naked reflections in acquiescence,
and appreciation for the way time reflects in us
like tree rings.
Then some day
I will come to you deliberately
closing the distance between us
with purpose until none is left.
Our bodies will lock together like the
perfect puzzle pieces they are.
My hand will trace history down your spine
while you read aloud from my breasts.
I love the immediacy of this poem. The raw feel of it~ Enjoy!
American Life in Poetry: Column 474
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Let’s celebrate the first warm days of spring with a poem for mushroom hunters, this one by Amy Fleury, who lives in Louisiana.
Up from wood rot,
wrinkling up from duff
and homely damps,
spore-born and cauled
like a meager seer,
it pushes aside earth
to make a small place
from decay. Bashful,
it brings honeycombed
news from below
of the coming plenty
and everything rising.
****************************** American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry: American Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture. There are no costs for reprinting the columns; we do require that you register your publication here and that the text of the column be reproduced without alteration.
Everything ends. You will end. As will I. This winter, these frozen cobwebs of memory like so many rivulets of ice will melt into spring lakes My smooth hands will gnarl like roots of old trees, and you won’t recognize them anymore.
One day, seeing a stranger, you’ll run from me when i ask you to dance, and your frantic footbeats will fade away, leaving an empathetic silence.