Dancin' Moon Songcast Ep. 70 Design, Taraxacum Officinale and On Cherry Hill... | POETRY SERIES EPISODE!

Design

1

We have a secret place

my daughters and I where

an old creek

has run empty

 

The sky above that hill

pushes fast past the swaying tips

of pines

but the birch, oak

and ironwoods have not yet

leaves enough to dance

 

No dry winter

no drought emptied our creek

the water turned aside

some years ago for other

work and my oldest

stares at the smooth stones

sunk into soil

When will the water

come back?

 

My youngest has hands

delicate as birch twigs and

burrows pebbles

from the bank

like a busy mole

carries one at a time

to the mound of larger rock

we are shaping into

a ring for our campfire

 

She chooses a spot

for each

and believing in some master design

believing I would know it asks,

Should I put it here?

Or here?

 

There, that looks good

right there, but that's really

the question, isn't it

 

and I think of the water's

working years and centuries

into polished stones

forever setting and re-setting each

here in our creek bed

to be abandoned

 

2

I cannot tell

how my knees bend

how my fingers

inside these leather gloves

swing on their hinges

 

I know only the digging and the

occasional sun

on my neck

 

I cannot read the seasons

burned into the grain

of this handle

or tell what secrets if any

the hills keep

 

but here, another shovel-full

for a moment visible

mixing with air

thrown toward the sun

 

3

The deep soil

reclaims each stone we leave

unturned, swallowing her

wayward children

 

around us, the trees

are smoldering

with an inner fire

relaxing into the dirt

that grew them

flaking open with each rain

skeletons all of ribs marking

the ground

with bright stripes

of greener grass

 

The air darkens

as rain enters the ravine

like a lost fawn:

one step there, here

hesitant behind us

other side of the tree, there

again, over the rise

and suddenly certain

almost purposeful

all around us

the leafy floor comes alive

with movement

 

we flee our unfinished altar

rain drenching

stones, wood, dirt

rivulets refilling th