Tendril

This entry is part 11 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

It is the Past’s supreme italic
makes the Present mean—

~ Emily Dickinson, “Glass was the Street— in Tinsel Peril” (#1518)

My cities and estates are made of smoke
and poems, my résumé laced with ample
culs-de-sac. You must have known

I could not trade my mountains
for plains so desolate in the heat.
I longed for the absolving rain, erasure

of missteps: poor choices, my rush
to cash the currency before its prime.
But now the sight of any small

tenderness moves more than grief
that runs its salt into the soil:
a flower smaller than my finger-

nail bursts white upon the sill
then shrivels; and yet it gifts
its fragrance like a signature.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard<em>The days, sharp-finned, they plane</em> →

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