april 6th. on the one year anniversary of spring and of my coming to writerscafe.org

 

 

 

Let me think.

Flowers feel the presence of eachother

as a mixture of shade colored threads;

sensing the closeness, in morning,

like a moccasin flower of Degas slippers.

Years would pass but you would finally

do the same, I mean, touch your toes

with my toes with that lethal dose.

 

And then April and it's long cellular organelles,

coming, coming but uttering with moans, that

springtime is a season, not a tender repeat

of instructions; and then shadows that

begets looming shadows and the reflection

of everything.

It's maddening

 

how it's carried out in such small phases.

The appearance of a star, then two stars.

Then a planet shows up

and then the sky is crowded in

illuminating gas. Then the phenobarbital

dream of the earliest fruit bossom

arising from the guilt of past wrongs,

like 2012 when we had no fruit,

but those canned two years before.

And it's not the same. Never the same

but sweeter

 

and I am excited for the ribbons and the kites.

For the migrating birds. For the bees and the

keepers of bees. For the hands dried out by

winter. For the ceremony. You

 

and abstract goodness will eventually be poured

out on the wicked and the unworthy.

The horizon frozen in it's blind shelf,

steals from what little sight we own.

The blues; the pubescent villous

warm evenings.

The pyxis falls off like the cap of a Saturn. Me?

 

I  follow your sweet yellows

like a dog.

Reviews

[Emily B]

happy anniversary, we were all blessed by your arrival

[Corset]

Your writing is magical Dana, however you came to be this incredible is yours to understand too , but ...my god, look at you, when the part of you that wants to love and heal shines through you are so amazing , so unbelievably talented, if you publish I will library every single one, I am your biggest fan, sometimes we push aside our own pain to take upon another, they are not always happy this is being done, but to be whole is not how it feels on the outside, but how it feels on the inside. Some people cry to be saved and then realize they don't want or need it or maybe it hurts too much. Well my friend, your writing is a phenomenal gift to each who read it.

[SHEEMA HUQ]

such a deep, thoughtful tribute to that day, you have a unique style I think

[Tree]

Reading your poetry is like walking into an old store full of curios. A basement, an attic. Full of stuff. And after working your way across the room you come across a window, with a view of a long green meadow.

And it's true what you say, the way the seasons springs upon us is maddening. Not to mention what is does to the human soul; tills it, like a field of dark damp earth...

Beautiful piece, D