was like keeping waterfalls from dropping--
was as impossible as curbing words
from proceeding with caution--
she was living in an uninterrupted stream
of red wings waxing--blue green waters finding a way
underneath the narrow road, flipping over grey rocks,
catching feathers on her way--
a mapless tiny green toad-
restless and raucous she sheds
small purple thoughts, as she climbs
cardigan mountain- a jewel cut for hiking boots,
and prayer shawls & rhinestones from grandma,
feather and bead earrings from the flea market in the pacific northwest-
she's completely her own person, down to her calloused ballerina feet.
barefoot, she'd grip pretty well to the rocks along the shore--
in summer, walking to and from the lighthouse..
dear lighthouse, perched as high as any pine--
pretty soon autumn would come...
light tinge of resin in the air..
in no time- she'll be making
sassafrass and pink sumac tea.
cut and turned upside down to dry in the cellar
apricot and peach preserves, with honey and ginger,
slathered on sourdough
with a quart of blueberries,
for the ride home
Kate Lamberg
July, '13, all rights reserved~(c)
 |
| me at fourteen, smiling for dad |
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