You must have a soul of spring to have seen the grass ferns petals stems wings with an artist’s eye, and to have placed the whole wild heap of scavenged fields between film—with blind faith it would fly beautiful before the light. sorrel Mourning Cloak thistle There were moths surrendered to the porch bulb like grisly paper maché. In their death you beheld your own charred self—you wept with sudden love and pity. Tenderly you peeled away their tattered bodies, set them amongst artifacts of home, spun them into delicate cadence. They flew again; your dark grief turned translucent. soft brome dandelion Broken Silverdrop What world emerged through the chlorophyllic tinge? Was chaos subdued when framed by twig? When seen through membrane (once a wing that swept night air into dizzying eddies)? What redemption did you glimpse through scar tissue, those remnants of macabre courtship with an incandescent sun? Forage Looper indigo Cassius Blue Behind the flickering veil, you must still be breathing. For I, alive on the other side, am certain I can find you. In the ferns’ mottled light. In the spaces between bramble and insect muscle. In the bramble itself.
Homage to “Mothlight” by Stan Brakhage and “The Snowman” by Wallace Stevens
10. In Laguna