Sunday, October 23, 2016

and I lit the tree

and I lit the tree
so that it was all aglow

and I painted the sky green
so that the river would turn turpentine

and I washed the lemons of the clouds
and I curdled the milk of the grasses into a sea of clots

and I lifted the stones of the snow shards
and I threw the sharp javelins of the hail to punctuate this poem

and I waited until it was a new landscape
and then I took my words and I reversed time yet again

now it is summer
with the pelting rain beating a tattoo

so that I might know
where I am in this landscape

and I stamped on the plain page of the poem 
and I made the muddy footsteps of confusion

as I can't do this work
in any sort of clarity

and I beat about in the forest of noise
at the marsh the silly ducklings stole the clocks

of the dandelions     to fly south
and the postcards of the leaves

are mailed away
to the far country of the soul    that blue place

and I left the burning canola blush of the flaming prairie
and I turned it all to the blackened flesh of winter

all the dogweed bushes bled out among the peeling birch trees
and the woodpeckers announced the calamity as I passed them

small wooden structures gave way as I spoke    and moss covered their sorry salvage
I made a path full of small incidents like this     the supper time was everywhere

from mouse to hawk      all over the aspens' canopy     I put the bullseye
so that the raven would flap his wings    and stand waiting for the sign

and I walked about feeling this was not very productive
but this is the way it always is     the poem sips from the cup of my mind

and I thought of the courage of the aspens as they made their lattices
these small broken frames that wigwam everywhere   surely they mean poetry as well?

when all was done  and the play was finished
I let the fir tree glow in triumph      for the poem should always end

with a Tamarack turning molten

Amelia Curran - Devils

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