I return from the field’s edge
cuts on my hands, mud
up my legs, blood from the earth
that nearly swallowed me whole
in my flowered boots that carried
me home, with a reddened face
(to match my palms) that yields
to beam at my mother
who turns our load into
purple gold, reward enough
for our autumn war
all elbows and legs fold, now
armed with nothing but spoons
until the cream-capped mountains
turn to crumb, our rounded
bellies calling for peace.
The Early Summer
By dappled waters we sit
dark ruby and golden brown
pints in hand. Legs outstretched just enough
to dodge the discarded lemon slices
and bottle tops from the night before.
The click of the sun cream lid,
the shuffling of blankets to find
change for chips remind us of
the sun we thought we had lost.
Even as our backs earn a crimson
glow, and the creases by our mouths
deepen with each sip.
My poetry tends to be quite nostalgic and personal, offering those I share it with a glimpse into what I otherwise wouldn’t be able to outwardly express. I often focus on small sensory details because that’s usually what our memories consist of.
These two poems have quite different contexts, however they do share similar themes. As separate pieces, they allow the reader to place themselves in their own version of events. As a pair, a sense of change and maturity develops which calls for a deeper consideration of the passing of time and how this alters, or in some cases preserves, our perspective on life.