Endless Lawn XVI

This poem and the last one (XV) are sisters. This poem isn’t about yard work, but I began writing it when I was mowing my back yard.

Brume

My fingers pass through a lush fog,

reminding me of another’s fingers

pulling, like little plows,

through wheat-blonde hair;

plaiting, so that the tresses resemble

well-organized tracts of farmland

as seen from an airplane window.

It doesn’t make me sad,

but it draws my mind away

from my ritual.

The dew begins to gather

on my hand, pool in my palm,

then run down the veins of my wrist;

imitating its source.

The New River flows calmly

beneath my body, my machine, and the bridge.

Fog evaporates from its surface:

often pure, sometimes marbled

biscuit, cream, butter, blonde.

This is where I worship.

You don’t know her.

So I won’t write her name.

Just the same way that you,

when your thoughts linger

on that sweet friend

who passed on before,

won’t share your tears with another.

You keep your face

turned toward a window,

and wait for the sun

to burn them away.

It isn’t because I don’t love you.

It’s just because sometimes

we worship alone.

I didn’t write this to hide from you.

I only want to keep part of it for myself.

I wanted to share the names of clouds,

convoluted, swimming in

and out of each other,

like gods’ titles

shifting over frontiers.

I wanted to know if

you’ve felt it too?

Maybe not in this valley,

over this river,

but when you hear

the hum of electricity

or when you smell

the scent of mangoes

or when you see

the glow of starlight?

I can’t explain clouds or gods.

I can’t share her name.

But I think that, by now,

you are thinking of another –

one that you, alone, can worship.

.               .               .

Here, born from water and from wind,

where others worshipped long before,

I am allowed to touch, again,

through dew and fog her opal form.

T. Evans, May 2022