Les plus lus ▸
Dave Bonta
north has lost its allure
to the great unsettling
mist lingers later in the day
storms smell like the tropics
the sun cedes ever more
to thieving ravens
and shimmering on a far shore
that magnetic field
traveling so light
even the songs stay behind
but home has grown
beyond elaboration
mountains don brighter plumage
berries ferment like sunsets
first a mellow burn
then the whole of the night sky
that gap between
crowns of adjacent trees
and what goes on underground
just one fling
on the way up
fox grape
Solomon’s seal
withered leaves curl around
the glossy black drupe
crustose lichen on a rock
its complex inner life
A gray day in March
is the best time to go hunting
for teaberries—
bright as fresh drops of blood
under the glossy wings
of wintergreen,
sharp and sweet
after all those months
of frozen burial.
There was a bush with scarlet berries
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow;
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite,
Fold after fold they flowed away--
“Let come what may,” your eyes were saying,
“At least we two have had to-day.”
Last night for the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
“Don’t touch them: they are poisonous,” I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
“Don’t you remember? We called them Dead Man’s Bread!”
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands ...
“These are my body. Sister, take and eat.”
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension;
Lady,
I will find the white orchid for you,
If you will but give me
One smile between those wayward drifts of hair.
I will break the wild berries that loop themselves over the marsh-pool,
For your sake,
And the long green canes that swish against each other,
I will break, to set in your hands.
For there is no wonder like to you,
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension.
The acrid scents of autumn,
Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear
Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn
And the snore of the night in my ear.
For suddenly, flush-fallen,
All my life, in a rush
Of shedding away, has left me
Naked, exposed on the bush.
I, on the bush of the globe,
Like a newly-naked berry, shrink
Disclosed: but I also am prowling
As well in the scents that slink
Abroad: I in this naked berry
Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush;
And I in the stealthy, brindled odours
Prowling about the lush
The sea rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.
Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.
Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.
I know hours empty as a beggar's tin cup on a rainy day, empty as a soldier's sleeve with an arm lost.
Speak to me . . .
The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight ;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves ;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves.
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park.
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces.
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war.
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers.
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate.
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box.
For I have time for nothing