Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Geoffrey Philip
Joseph McNair
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Dave Etter
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Duane Locke
Karyn Wolven
Marisella Veiga
Michael D. Long
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Steve Beaulieu
Gerald Clark
Mary E. Finlan
Fred Wolven

THE BLOWSY AUGUST ROSE

I climb the true bones of the oak,
settle under an alcove of leaves,
speak to the face of the moon.

I watch the blowsy August rose
lean across grey water,
bloom in the first glimmer of dawn.

I see the faint star light-years away
shine on the lost treasures of a child,
rescue the language of the heart.

I open a locket of mirrored dreams--
the illusion of endless time
spills into the radiant sky-sea.


FIELD NOTES

The day overcast.  Impossible to find the sun
                     that rises
           each morning in the arms of the gnarled tree.

The river bends, following an abused horse down
                     a gradual
           slope.  A soft breeze raises the animal's thick mane.

The hairs on my skin bend like new grass parted by a
                     rising wind.
           A purple flower opens on the stem of a bright promise.

I think of the family and friends I have lost --
                     how life
           is the precious moment, its foothold insecure.

The thought stays one step ahead of me,
                     riding
           the rescued mare into the dark pasture.


GRAZING FATE

I walk the winding river parkway on a September afternoon
         head
                   down--watch for
                                      acorns, hubcaps
                   hear car brakes squeal

I look up
         profile of a young doe
                   the long stride of luck as she charges across the sidewalk
                         two steps
                                      in front of me
                  our startled wet brown eyes
                  the muddy river runs through us
                  we bathe in it, wash fear's pervasive scent

         she could trample me
                  and I would understand
                         for at our least, we are instinct
                                      hurtling toward the sun, making that wild leap into elegance.


Christine Lord, Ann Arbor, Michigan 

                   


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