– After Whitman
How now, when green stipples earth
like stubble to adolescent year—how now,
when mounting tangerine of sky drips
its blood, watering aqualucent, vast azure—
how now, when fallow years coalesce
reborn, with spring in their first, tentative steps—
and life, once again, all again
breathes rain-scented breath—
do I sing of the dark?
in the dusky shade of spent grounds,
and earthy leaves, spreading
spinach, turnip, arugula;
the flesh of wilder birds
turkey, pheasant, quail
with dirt in their veins
I sing of the lived, and living.
It isn’t all strawberries, citrus, and cilantro;
we lose sight of summer if not for our Fall.
Give me oregano, rosemary, & thyme—
most of all thyme, & roots that dig deep
past living loam, to hollow earth
where experience echoes
the life grown rich
in its passing.