a bullfrog exhales
a dusty accordion
serenades the pond
Month: February 2018
studying the waves
as if he’s asking questions
the sea can’t answer
butterflies zig zag
like embroidery stitches
through spring’s tapestry
blurry lily pads
develop like Polaroids
near the pond’s surface
the cool whisper
of the story of the wind
its pages turning
like a speckled egg
night blindly cradles the earth
waiting to be born
geese fly through thick mist
like rows of ghostly stitches
quilting the night sky
young birch stretches tall
breathing like a scared rabbit
all shadow and light
Takeover
This parking lot
hasn’t seen a car in thirty years
Prairie grass grows four feet tall
heaves concrete out of its way
without asking
Who else knows about the blackberries ripening here
besides the sun
Next door, graffiti bellows
WORLD IN TROUBLE
a slow revolution
clover and bindweed spill across pavement
chicory, joe pye weed seep into the streets
and those grasses four feet tall
flood the neighborhood with prairie
until it covers the city
until it covers the earth
waving with every gust of wind
this empty lot’s
only chance at freedom
On the Way to Arcola
On my way to Arcola, IL, I had seen a speck on the map called Chicken Bristle, and I set out to find it. I thought it would be fun to take a picture of the city limit sign. I think I found the town, although I never saw any sign. A cluster of houses sat where the speck had been on the map, an island in an ocean of cornstalks. The roads near Chicken Bristle were paved and one-lane, set in a grid. The cornfields flanking each path created almost a tunnel effect. I wondered what would happen if a car came from the opposite direction, but I never found out. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m walking down that same blacktop, protected by armies of corn. My footsteps make no sound. The corn is always green, and it is always summer.