Strange to See Where
Strange to see where things land
once loosed, unhanded.
Leaves can plummet or travel,
carried by their own lack of mass.
A swath of purple flowers
along one side of the highway,
thick and bright as a stripe
of paint. Paint, for that matter,
one whole wall wet, and
drops of white freckling a cheek,
pulled up by the underside
of a shoe and tracked out the door.
Sand in the car’s upholstery
a year after the beach. A wobbly
pine seedling planted decades ago
solidly unfolding, growing, and
from its wingspan needles falling
to form a decomposing alphabet.
I have flecks of sand from last weeks trip to the beach. I feel sort of sad that I separated the sand from the beach and yet it is lovely to have the little bit of an unintentional souvenir to remind me.
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Poetic, this. Our backyard is full of pine needle droppings and little fluffy bits of pine stuff (what is the correct term for these things?). As much as I curse them in the sweeping up, they are organic, they are part of the fabric of our neighborhood. I shouldn't curse them; I should praise them.
The total effect of this poem, for me, is a contemplation of where things end up, and why. It makes you think of random bits of this and that, all connected. It's all one big landscape, our world.
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