INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Mary E. Finlan
THE BLOWSY AUGUST ROSE
I climb the true bones of the
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.
The day overcast. Impossible to find the sun
each morning in the
arms of the gnarled tree.
The river bends, following an abused horse down
slope. A soft
breeze raises the animal's thick mane.
The hairs on my skin bend like new grass parted by a
A purple flower
opens on the stem of a bright promise.
I think of the family and friends I have lost --
is the precious
moment, its foothold insecure.
The thought stays one step ahead of me,
the rescued mare
into the dark pasture.
I walk the winding river parkway on a September afternoon
hear car brakes squeal
I look up
profile of a young doe
the long stride of luck as she charges across the sidewalk
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