I.
Leaf of cracked copper
lace crusted and grayed
you are floor of November.
Leave your material
your finite, your matter
less organ, more humus
more scatter.
Spring, sprout more
hemlock, black tupelo
moss, maple and swamp
wild blueberries—
anemones.
II.
O geranium
woodsy bloom
of perennial rhizome
veined flower of lavender—
you butterfly childhood.
Each of your seeds
curls open when ripe.
III.
Pale petal heart
of wild rose—
so lush on your bush
just last Sunday—
flung by wind—throb
on this surface of swamp
blued briefly by sky
before decay—purify.
IV.
Wake nowhere near dawn
windows open
listen—the leaves
noise of nothing
catastrophic —
just this deciduous
rain-rinse of lavish
and shameless.
This poem first appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal (2021).
—
Kelly DuMar is a poet, playwright and workshop facilitator from Boston. She’s author of four poetry collections, including jinx and heavenly calling, published by Lily Poetry Review Books. Her poems and images are published in Bellevue Literary Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Thrush, Flock and more. Kelly facilitates expressive arts support groups for psychologists and therapists working in war zones. She produces the Featured Open Mic for the Journal of Expressive Writing. Reach her at kellydumar.com
