Painting the
green today, the luxuriance of hemlock,
pine – oh,
the dying pine below, from
that harsh
lightning of August.
Painting,
thickness of green against log,
Far from the
sweet white cottages of
Greenbrier
or Natchez.
But close
enough to live on a ridge near those who fly
(the kestrel,
Cooper’s, mocker)
who run
(the buck
with fierce antlers)
who snoop
(the fox)
and guard
fiercely from fighter jets and turkey buzzards and butterflies
(Great
White). The green is peace here.
But the green
of the door remembers other lovers without peace,
juleps near
the river, in the hiding mountains,
grandmother
tying the braid of a redheaded scamp in the cool of the porch
as we run to
the creek, coming to a dead stop.
Shimmered,
then scorched and torn.
The green of
waiting for war, for summer storms, for the loss
of the one
who doesn’t return.
The summer
storm took green doors, shattered green shutters,
flattened Point
Cadet where they had run after other wars,
where some
talked in brogue of the far seas
and others in
lilt of Asia,
they left to
the new sea before dawn and came home after dark,
little ones
jumping into hot waters, squealing on Sundays.
Shotgun house
one and another,
many newly
painted in greens, pinks and blues – but mostly whitewash.
Shrimp steam
wafting before lunch, pusharatas and spring rolls a step apart.
Old windows
reflecting oleanders.
Old men
mending nets.
Then, gone.
The men, the
windows, the oleanders, the squeals.
The green
shutters.
~ Published in Artemis Journal 2013 ~
~ Published in Artemis Journal 2013 ~
