If you think of us at all
think of us as rugosas.
Not denizens arrived to cultivate,
but grown here. Borne
on seas so high so far back
some mistakenly call us indigenous.
We took, took hold.
Thorns helped. Fruits known
to be necessary not to mention
roses some risked blood for
and other sorry traits.
Bristled seeds waves
of settlers spit out
like irrelevant distractions.
The Chickadee and I Enter Our Bower
being a woman's undercover chamber
(thatched round in covert greens)
a cloistered basket, moss-lined
(I go to through my desk window)
to dew my eyes
(and fern my thoughts)
or when I am simply fiddled out
(by my rusting toad-with-violin)
by one of Weil's amusing birds
(wired and weldedmy friends )
well-- who could stay fixed to paper and dust
(given a retreat like this)
your vision weaving the poplar and hazelnut
(hemlock and pine)
drawn to the beyond
(to this leaving room )
through this opening in the pain
(to the blue)
to that downy swoop from hundreds of breezes up
(to the when )
chirping what a handful
(God can be be be )
flow into granite's pink veins
the soft with hard of it
answer sure as Melody in F's
treble staff resolutions. Sure as sweat
dissolving in tears, tears swelling
to rain, a
joining delphinium's juice, becoming.
|Patricia Ranzoni grew up along the northern reach of the Appalachian range, where she now writes from a farm in Bucksport, Maine. Her first collection, Claiming, was published in 1995 by Puckerbrush Press, which, in 2000, brought out her second, Settling. She is a founder of SpiritWords/Maine Poetries Collaborative and Maine Poetry & Story Exchange.