A season for new fuzz and
for haughty tulips to
pattern the hills along the road;
we drive past
a rash of cream blossoms hanging like
grapes in latticed kudzu wire.
Each bunch a parcel of small cakes with bees
blackening the pinched center.
A lean sweetness opens into
humming depths and
you remember the scent from years you thought dead.
Your sour eyes remember the thin, brilliant blue of
the decades before I was born.
Talk to me about those roads where you
come from- the field peas and berries in
Sing the hymn and churn the
remembrance of wild seed.
Let the dark liquor whip your face
and send you out to battle with your
rifle stories and good sense.
Carry your old tricks over the fallow
parts until you reach something green.
I hear your sigh.
-The Iron Sister