Kingswood: ‘a place to rest where wounds get dressed, the table’s full’ – jgarrels

there where the hemlock’s needles spiral
up, up, the conifer in a copse of spruce,
I saw the pink orchid, the lady-slippers swaying
like lanterns to my feet along the stone-staircase, too,

there where a fence once was, between friends, lay
shale and blue sandstone shattered about,
covered in cold, clean, wet-sediment promises
I peered through the teal fog’s hovering vow,

there where the Delaware wound round and rumbled
more like a creek than the claim her name bore,
the mourning dove hushed as the sun sank to sleeping
in the cradle of the Catskills I hear shame no more.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s