Despite or because –
not an island, exactly, though
you say I live too much inside myself.
Perhaps a peninsula,
a cautious jutting forth.
We watch a speckled fawn
under the apple tree, feet splayed.
rapid-fire assaults on red plastic.
inadvertently shake birdseed
to the ground and a trio of wild turkeys,
the painted tuft
of a red-crested lucy bird.
Silence like waves through water –
then humid-heavy birdsong.
Later a full moon, garish
as a clown’s face
but I can just about breathe again.
The huge lilac around the corner
burst out overnight, its blossoms so sweet
succulent they almost made me weep.
From my bedroom window
I can still see the empty space left
by the brontosaurus-sized lilac I attacked
three years ago for no reason I can recall,
except it had grown so wild and unruly,
its untidy ground swept branches
twisted and looped through the leaves
of an elderly apple tree, blocking my view
of the wild roses beyond – or what matters.
It seems you can cut more
than the green from things – like winter wools
and worn slippers, well-thumbed flesh.
Soon as it was done how I wanted
that lilac back, realized that showy bush
was the view of beyond. Now just a bare stump.
Order The Mysteries of Fishing and Flight, a poetry collection by Jacqueline K. Powers here.
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