Finally, we have come to the place
we wanted—
wooden tables stacked with fruit
and yeasty flat bread,
pitchers of spring water
with the green of mint,
the yellow of lemon
floating along the surface,
water said to be magic,
to be healing,
from an ancient sacred source.
We are in the side street,
in front of the spice shop
that sells cinnamon
and earthy nutmeg.
Here, in the sunlight,
for a while, we eat
of the magic of trees,
drink of the clear, fresh water.
Sleep
All night frowns down.
We listen to the spirit voices
Which live in the grove,
Voices so much like water moving
Over smooth stones.
We listen to the unearthly trees
High above in the dark—
“Sleep,”
Say owls from the dark branches,
“All things sleep at our feet.”
This sleep,
A shower of leaves.
This sleep,
Winter melting
Into the grove.
In the Time of Golden Trees
We imagine to hunt & forage
on the sandy streambank,
to follow the paved path
& burst out through the trees.
But the Fox Mother
has shown us her teeth,
taught us to be,
to peel away
with claw & fang.
We are not the same
savages we once were
in the waving honey-leaves.
Tonight,
in this bronze wood
we are silent & broken,
our time of golden trees
has passed.
Krista Canterbury Adams writes out of Columbus, Ohio. She has a six-poem series due to be printed this spring in AHF Magazine & has forthcoming work in The Dark Sire, Carmina, Collective Realms, CC&D magazines and BFS Horizons. She is a member of the SFPA.
Photo Credit: David M. Olsen