Story Lodge
she speaks it piping hot
hard truth served
like buttered grits
whether we pray
in His name or Yours
Creator knows
when and where
to RSVP
meet us later
at Granny’s
after eviction from
the Broken Arrow Trailer Park
where they all pray
in Jesus’s name
but pay
in Jackson’s image
there’s a vacancy sign
near a wrong turn
at Birdtown
by two beavers
fighting over a fat log
(at the end of Drama Road)
all of us so far from home
the billboard up ahead
missing a corner
and a .com
but I make out twofeathers
and scroll for info
this domain up for sale
like all the rest around here
then follow the river
into lateness of afternoon
water strider’s invisible feet
casts a butterfly’s shadow
on the mud bottom of
a mountain stream
translucent lily pads
at the ends of spindly legs
walk on bright light water
a Jesus bug in sunshine
standing pine
standing tall
still standing
pine tall
star boys in the sky
all seven of us together again
lost here tonight
by the freshly cut
sweetgrass side road
now in deepest midnight
where time ran off
in drain ditches
in the fast lane of a water flow
fancy dancing?
torrents
downstream
and thoughts slowly
combing through
rock mosses
brushing hair in moonlight
friendly fire
a fallen tree
a casualty
in the wake of beaver’s
fight for territory
asks the primordial question:
in which corner of the darkness
will I make my home?
trees lay long like fingers
pointing a way into the night
always down now
forward
and down
a cover of blackness
offering safe passage
across
pilgrims leaving
quiet
at river’s edge
teardrops
and quiet
laying down
troubles
on the prison side
give away
clear away
give
clear
seven rounds
we go
me and the night
the injury
I give to the mountain
and to the log wolf
or is it a log bear?
as sun and mist
raise the morning
how long have we been
in all this time
resting in
the ability to stand winter
heart wood to hard wood?
the center holding tight
our lives growing
from unknown edges
always something to protect
a quiet god’s misty whispers
a living leaf on a dying branch
an offspring standing alone
the single pine atop Mingo Falls
the only pine in these piney hills
and the seventh boy
forged in fire
the lonely evergreen
atop the falls
springing forth
from scarification
in the Thunderlands
germination
(newness)
a clearing way
first changing leaf of new autumn
the rusty top
and burnt crisp halo
of life’s zenith
and a son searching
reaching higher
arms outstretched to fire
yellow tears
falling from sky vault
cover the river in a quilt
and my distant boys
of distant galaxies
six to one and flame to flame
flicker here
all together again
in the conifer-scented season
of declining day
From The Sandpiper’s Spell, Ransom Poet Publishers
© 2022, Tom Pearson