By Mercedes Lawry
I sit in the tomato red chair,
flanked by shingled light,
the grist of so many Aprils,
struggles and joys of bloom,
ladders of bird notes, my misbegotten
days and your absence.
Time shifts now, even as it hastens
and settles deeper in the rivers on my skin.
I probe the cinders of imagination
as if new words will emerge, spark a synapse
so that I might say something
revelatory, polished, like a bean seed
that will burrow into the dirt,
thrust out stem and cotyledon,
pod and flower, snaking up the wire trellis
to become green filigree and finally, food.
Copyright 2018 Lawry