A prose poem from the book, which I'm again discounting to $11.00 through February, for all of you who didn't get one in December! Email me if you want one.
Wild Ranunculas. This is
how you mend, ounce by floating ounce. Each petal lights on the eye, and the
five-fingered yellow flowers nod. A moving cloud scars the field in March
wind’s bitter tea. Walking through fields is an undoing. Eyes take off memories
and stand where sun has fallen and sprouted into a thousand green buds. Within
each opened cup, a tiny black and drunken fly. How have you come this far, you
ask. To know the wild ranunculas graze on your trampling ankles. Go back! You tell the flowers. The world is not ready for your news of
stars. The meadow’s ancient bulletins are thick with unearned light. You
return bee-like, carrying.
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