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I've been thinking of all the words
that have rearranged my life:

words like pine— opening
its cathedral doors & emerald quiet;
hammock— the whispered
conspiracies of sisters overheard
in summer's high fever;
shadow— twilight flickering red
through a stained glass window—

something left of that fire
like a smudge of cloud in lake skies
reminds me I work by memory
and struggle to perfect a story
beneath a calm surface.

This afternoon I took an hour
to walk the back fields with
a weed stuck in my mouth
and a stray cat around my feet.

I wanted to improve what I say
I can see— the last days of winter,
nearly gone in the precision of rain—
a month of mud, of ruts, of minerals.

that smell like rot, like love, that
dirty word, telling more than I wanted.

To say dark flowers bloom on wallpaper
and a wasp preens on the sill
names the invisible.

I've told my versions too many times.

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Copyright © 2016 M.J. Iuppa All rights reserved
from Small Worlds Floating
Cherry Grove Collections
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission