#13 winter solstice 2014

I was afraid of people like Gertrude Stein.
I remember scuffing my feet for the sound of the leaves.
Like blue kindling, the black sticks can be arranged in vases
or light the studio fire.
I do see the moon over our bookshelves
and discover bird nests made of moss in my bowls.
Light can be bitter, but words help me see the darkness.
Photographing garden riches made visible in clay
glues time to my memories.

In the Dark We Crush
By Julia Cohen

Crab apples for the sound of it. Light cannot

be bitter. The backyard licks us.
 
Blue like kindling, the fox we caught with

a shoebox. Your shirt is a constellation
 
in the tent of recovery. If you release the hand

you relax the animal. Bookshelves hold up
 
the moon. I sweep your fur into a feeling.

I put you into my memories on purpose.
 
Moss smuggles stars into your cheeks.

Inside your body's future, bravery turns to pulp.
 
The flashlight pendulum. Your face sounds like that

record player. Electric & spinning.
 
Let's grow old together. Don't be scared

of Gertrude Stein. Be brave.