Though you travel through this land
there are no strangers here.
Although you may not know
my name, nor theirs, not trillium,
nor podophyllum, distinguish cinnamon
from maidenhair, or ostrich fern,
we play like children at a party-
orbs of oxygen passing between us,
intimacy we can scarcely fathom.
The mind wends with clumsy intention, a response-
wind breathing the invitation of your sultry perfume.
Shovel-steel thrust deep in this still-living earth
an idle handle leaning into the future.
Hands dip into the cool of the stream,
pull splinters from callouses,
wave nuisance of busybodying flies away.
Eyes fall on soil, ant terrace
alive, thriving. No shelf life here
stamped on plastic bags.
Feast on richness of red mites, lichen,
hornet, millipede, lightning bug,
brambleberries ready to burst
a welcome. They knew you
would come. A banquet
for which you need not toil.
—
Noel Wingard is a poet, artist, and published biophysicist. Her poems have been performed as interpretive dance internationally, exhibited at The Grotto, featured in Culture On the Line, as well as published in GROUND journal, Willows Wept Review, and Hail Muse! Etc. She is a two-time alum of the Ashbery Homeschool, a long-time member of The Virginia Center for the Book, and a member of Not-the-Rodeo Poets. She resides in the mid-Atlantic like an electron cloud.
