a draft
the ripe glow between the rooftops
is a wedge of strawberry pie.
always hungry, i throw on a sweater
and pad toward this mid-evening delicacy.
i step straddling over a wire fence,
scramble up the backyard hill,
ready to feast; oh! it was a mirage,
not a sliver of thing to be gobbled up,
but a long roll of wool
carded clean and dyed rose, a gift from
the island sheep who now bleat their bored complaint.
my mouth is dry.
thankfully,
over my shoulder the moon is peach ripe for plucking;
i press it to my lips, then reconsider;
o my daughters,
sitting at our dinner table beyond this earth’s curve,
i will blow it like a kiss
toward you.
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Asides
» A note to readers who are looking at the new blog: you’ll notice some “greatest hits” from reverendmother there, especially as I ramp up my writing in that space. Sorry for the déjà vu!
» There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. -Wendell Berry
» “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope.” -Barbara Kingsolver
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
I’m sure they felt the brush of your kiss that evening
This is yummy! Nice, nice.
wow.
In the words of a mutual friend/mentor/prof…wowowowow. I saw the skies and tasted and saw that all is good.