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Dave Bonta
in the purple-stemmed
jungle of pokeweed
last year’s skeletons
goldenrod meadow
forty acres and a wren
the somewhere else
that is also here
ridge after ridge
too big to hide
the spider draws in her legs
and turns to gemstone
Most of the goldenrods still standing
at winter’s end are topped
by the empty habitations of wasps.
Dried half-pods of milkweed
cluster three to a stalk,
a Baroque superfluity of arch and wing.
From the woods, a drumming grouse
reminds me what real wings can do—
that accelerating heartbeat.
Oak tree,
Elm tree,
And apple bough. . . .
Their shadows fall
On the cool green grass.
Shadows of willow trees lie in the shimmering pool,
And the pine trees' flicker
On crystal snow.
(Even the baby, chubby and sweet,
Poised on her tiny, tottering feet,
Casts now her shadow — an instant's gloom,
Over a purple hyacinth bloom.)
Last winter, set in a fire-lit room,
Were two sprays of long-dried goldenrod. . . .
Feathery, frosty plumes.
They were certainly ghostly enough in themselves,