Just After Forsythia, After Iced Rain
Rattle Snake Mountain
pokes up thru the clouds
and we drive past pastures
and tangled orchards.
Trees squeak, green fur
in the wind sounds like
dolphins calling. Above
a field of trillium, the
Liz Taylor of wild flowers,
a nipple hill of snow
dotted with may apple
and blood root. Indians
used it for war paint.
Wintergreen we pick for
tea. Deer berries and
yellow lady slippers. In
this quilt of pastels, I
think of what the blind
would smell, the musky
damp wood, the earth
opening. I think of those
on the island where no
one sees in color seeing
70 shades of grey in
the leaves and as the
light goes, the glint and
shimmer, the texture of
petals in near darknesscopyright 2005 Lyn lifshin
bio
Contents 06
Contents 2002-2006
Barnwood Press