The walking
stick picks
its way
upside down
along the
underside
of the meadow’s
flowering surface —
goldenrod,
asters,
snakeroot —
a stem
among stems,
stalking just
the right
leaf. When
it reaches
a gap
in the canopy,
it stops
to sway —
a rhythmic
rocking. Then
one spined
twig reaches
for the nearest
likely toehold
& the rest
of it follows,
stretched like
the shadow
of a tree
in winter
across
the glaring
moment of
the sky.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).
I like this a lot, Dave. The sparseness suits it. And those last few terse lines! Wow.
I love it.
stretched like
the shadow
of a tree
in winter
across
the glaring
moment of
the sky.
Yes, I like the end particularly. Very nice!
Wonderful poem about my favorite insect.
“one spined/ twig reaches”
The shape and pacing of the poem is so much like their measured movements. Well done. Makes me see a critter I haven’t in too long.
Yes, wonderful ending. New Caledonia has provided some great stick-insect encounters.
mmm lovely