Greener

So now there is this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

A hundred years ago,
I sat in strange porchlight
and we talked on what if,
but I never had it in me.

And now there is this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

And if I were less outside,
would the blade be sharper?
I’ve grown slow as bone
in what should be tearful time.

Because now there is this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

I rub dust into my palms
and bury my face.
Kick the green and brown walnuts
down the trail.
Crumble yellow coneflower seeds
and inhale the spice they breathe.
Hide myself in bluestem and indiangrass.

But still there is this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

And maybe I’m like that goldfinch
that I held in cupped hands.
Maybe all I need is some perch
where I can recover
and gather my wings for flight.

Away from this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

For now,
I am a jar full of water
collecting sunlight again.
And his words are drops of oil
that fall into the jar —

Oil that is this name.
This time.
This point on the map.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

2 responses to “Greener”

  1. Dick Jones says :

    This is a fine evocation of the power of memory with some beautiful and striking images – ‘I have grown slow as bone’, ‘I am a jar full of water/collecting sunlight again./And his words are drops of oil/that fall into the jar’. Have you published?

  2. Emily says :

    Thank you so much for your kind words, Dick.

    To answer your question, no. Other than here, I have not published. One of those things that always seems to float around on the to-do-someday list.

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