Friday, October 29, 2010

For being here

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Dead Fennel

I climb the barren hill. Summer
has taken it all. Scrabs of scattered
thistle amid a ruin in black nettle.

Not a kiss or flower to be had.
Not yours, not theirs. Far below,
a mother calls to her children.

Answers come in windstrain
testing the structure of wings
as kestrel slits a throat of sky.

A world lies fertile in every
direction and none appeal
to me. I am for being here.

Trace rim and slip crown
to slope the downing side
where rabbitskitter scuttles.

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Burrows resist sun in black
refusals piercing what remains
unseen within the hidden.

Coyote tracks confirm patience,
resilience, resolve, each hole
collared in hungered adornment.

I move in spirals toward what
becomes arcless and unswelling,
the infertile hill rising behind.

Long stalks bend low like
pilgrims at temple; form a
bleak devotion of dead fennel.

I am home here, dead among
dead, living among what stirs
to be alive within all of it.

Joseph Gallo
October 22, 2010


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