sunday muse #214

sydney seems bitten, just stares at the stars, and the stars consume her, we wonder where she goes when those story-time-eyes close, coveralls covered in clover, grass stain knees, croaking frog, soaking wet, moonlight dripping from her hair, she chases fireflies, or maybe they’re falling stars (sydney has a little ant farm, and everywhere that sydney goes, fire ants are sure to burn ghosts down) she also dreams of poppies, all the colors she can remember, all the colors she can smell, they grow as tall as immortals, she dreams she can climb as high as she wants
all the way to the moon
or straight into a storm 

posted for the sunday muse

untitled thing (draft)

she says she’s a ghost writer, which means she can write the words “poison apple” on a scrap of paper, eat it, and live to tell the tale, and i say, so tell me, how did it taste?
and she says like a dream, from the wishing tree, sweat like spring and bitter like ink, and now her thoughts dwell deep (like an apple seed) in a cool garden grove 

just calling this one “nebraska” for now (repost from old blog)(2nd draft)

a nebraska man in a nebraska land
mending his fences
        boots and bib overalls
how carefully he weaves
he turns the dirt with his thick fingers
a ripe black earth 
        the smell of it
the taste of it, all of it
        the wide-rim sky
is his hat, he wears it like a daydream
and this canopy of alfalfa

his winter coat, his face
        both frostbitten 
                and sunburnt
i’m not sure which came first
the man 
        or the land
i can’t separate the two
        in any of my memories
is this a creation of his imagination?
or did these dandelions  
                image him?
a god walks down the sappa creek
as pheasant run between his feet
and a long nebraska wind
        whistles and cymbals                                       
thru the cornstalks and sunflower
waving their feathered petals
        gold and green

posted for d’verse open link night