Poems in the Shade of Green


Each summer woods threaten

to take this place. Salmonberry, elder,

the Sasquatch mittens of devils club

encroach on the patch around our house

then swallow it whole. We have never had

the wild and cloying cucumber but there

he is, showing out of nowhere, like sea scum,

algae blooms, crops of a warmer earth.

On this misty day, the flora don patinas of brilliant

resilience, like they dare us try

and stop them, same as we did in our twenties,

when fluids coursed through and we toiled

and reached, and our dreams were a bow that shot

us every moment, every day, to the final power.

© Tricia Gates Brown 2012



Pondering the women who, given no choice, mourned leisure

Noticing the dogs make a blanket of sun,

I move out under the bee tree, hear them

barely for the sound of lawn mower, bird

song, creek song, jitter of bamboo chime.

But the bees sidle close, outline the page

where I write, asking, what is there to say

but the blue of forget-me-nots, bow

on the horizon, buoyant on this April

day? Moondust euphorbia, raspberry peony,

hands to the Lord, erysimum navel orange,

stretching side-long to the violet of hyacinth?

Even the aspenwood risks its leafing. Let

the wind kiss you, the bee-monk says, let it

always take longer, this kissing. Cat slinks under

my leg, its warm fur an invitation, and

finally I give in, stubborn as a beam. Is it not

better to lie in a blanket of sun?

© Tricia Gates Brown 2012

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