Postcard to Parsnip
Since we end,
there must be you,
who sweetens
because of frost.
Pale carrot cousin,
naked mole rat of root vegetable.
They call common statice
marsh-rosemary,
sea-lavender.
But the underworld’s
strung with lanterns,
pockets of moon.
Postcard to Poultice
I’m en route wearing precipice,
fewer oratories. You heard the August
crickets? Loud, last haul, clean grating night.
Coyotes cry from my back door,
their talk wakes me with their sound sadness,
reaching. While over the brushline
the dead disappear in discarded,
unrushed colors.
Will you arrange yourself
as red geranium,
ascent of white Greek step?
Tree-top finch
rosy above snow?
Later and earlier lace
of light?
Sleeve-
full of violets?
Forgetfulness:
you’ve been with me all this time?
Stacie Leatherman is the author of two books of poetry: Stranger Air (Mayapple Press) and Storm Crop (BlazeVOX Books).
Header photo by , courtesy Shutterstock. Photo of Stacie Leatherman by Michael Hemery.
