April, after Planting
Susan Laughter Meyers
You, or the mystery of you, pulled a cart
down the crow path. The cart, full of empties
and premonitions, wobbled its rocky song,
the empties clinking their own clear notes.
I couldn’t fault you anymore, despite
the oil stains on your shirt, the one frayed
seam that sliced your pocket to a wider grin.
I stitched the shape of you to the cloudless sky.
Now when I close my eyes, the why of you
rides seamless above the salvia. Hummingbirds
buzz the feeders. At night I pace the garden
and quiz the moon. How to reconcile the stars.
You and your small boat somewhere
daring the wind, me here wishing for rain.
Spring 2010 Table of Contents