DRY CRIK Journal

I fell in love with sweaters, early on –
not the heavy knit and fuzzy ones,
but colors clung to hills like grass
in all seasons,

            the autumn flesh tones,
            the tie-dyed springs.

                            We prayed for rain,
                            for rivers run,
                            we prayed again
                            for more to come.

                            With wild a buzz
                            in dream and sun –
                            we fell in love,
                            became undone

            forever after.

It starts there, early on the tip
of each bare branch – a tiny,
green heart reaching,
testing light and temperature

before the buds burst crimson.
Flailing shoots I fail at pruning
into naked, hydra-headed grace,
the redbud sheds her petals

for big heart leaves
to the prolonged crescendo
of daytime hums and nighttime
croaking, so deafening

            I never knew
            why I reached so
            on my tip toes.

But it starts there, early on –
you feel the hillsides breathing
beneath you, around you –
feeding dreams for life.