Green tomatoes taste

like the tart crispness of sunrise

Clouds garnish beet-pink sky

 

She greets the savory day

with words of fresh citrus

for a brighter taste

 

Adds green curry paste while

visiting with a neighbor who

does his own dialysis

 

He sleeps with fragrant purple basil

outside his bedroom window

She hoes her golden corn

 

Eats marshmallows of whimsical flavors

Lemonade/champagne

flecked with 24 carat gold

 

When it is night she makes

jet black brioche rolls, the dough

rolled in Japanese charcoal powder

 

One teaspoon of powder colors 12 rolls

which doesn’t change the flavor

but it’s really the softness of the bread

That is the thing

 

It is, she says

like eating a cloud

 

-Fae Ellsworth

let other poets write––

I’ll carve your name in sand, paint

 

your colors in air, sculpt

water into your shape

 

and when one of us leaves,

I’ll open my hand, release

 

a paper lantern

flickering in the dark

 

-Ashley Imlay

They discovered a directional system of

petroglyphs in Utah.  The treasure at the end

of the trail isn’t gold.  It’s water.  These “water

glyphs” pointed directly toward a single tree,

to a nearby water source.

––Maurice Evans, Wilderness Utah

 

An ancient trail snakes across

sandstone and shattered shale

where a solitary cedar breaks the stark horizon.

Twisted roots reach deep to drink.

 

Tree,

how did you know you could grow here?

Surrounded by cactus, sand, tumble weeds

and rocks, you grabbed hold and pushed

your way to the sun.

How did you know you could grow here?

 

The vast desert emptiness rings.

Sage whispers carry the wind, lifting

Raven and butterfly to new heights,

waiting for an issue of rain.

 

Little wings,

how did you know this tree would be here?

How did you know outstretched, smooth,

cattle-rubbed branches would reach for you,

offering shelter and rest in this lonely place?

How did you know you could grow here?

 

On a rock panel above an aimless weaving of wheat grass,

the Ancient Ones engraved images of a split circlem

leaving their voices in a chiseled code,

a secret water glyph guide

pointing the way

 

to a solitary cedar.

 

-Candy Lish Fowler

Smell of rain and a ruckus of gulls above the ball fields

drew his eyes from class work to the yard. It was a snatch of song

that caught him though, turned him fully in his seat

toward the raised window, listening for the bird fluting his name,

notes tangled in a warbled knot, loosed in a freshet of sound,

 

spilling in across the sill, down rows of desks,

each bowed head deaf to the music, lost in the solvability of sums.  

Except him.  Borne on ripples of birdsong back to the close world

of shuffling papers and shifting chairs, he shot his hand up in the air

to tell his class the meadowlark sings

Bradley is a pretty little boy

(his mama told him so)

grinning in private knowledge until other boys

threw back their heads and laughed. The school yard sang

the meadowlark’s taunts days beyond his counting.

He took to throwing stones at its yellow breast.

 

Oftentimes the bird still calls. Rising from his work

he spies it there, atop post or pole,

its beak lifted to the morning, singing of a boy.

Sometimes he disavows the name in the air

and turns to settle once more to his task.

Sometimes he recalls when he was pretty,

made of rain, an arc of color over trees,

and clears notes falling on the breath of spring.

​

-Pam Tucker

He stands remote, this stoic Plains Indian.

A warrior wrapped in is pride, his ‘old ones’

chant and sing while he is blessed.

He has used the vision of his manly test

to guide him, no the sacred songs.

 

Nearby in a sandy circle is painted hidden

meaning for his quest.  He searches for perfect

willows, bends them to a circle while his hands

imprint a message that only he knows––the fur

and rawhide accepts, will last many moons.

 

He hefts its taut fit, feels it divide the winds, circles

it into the sky, chants, makes it part of him and earth.

To this, his mandella, he sings his song, then ties in eagle

feathers, the blessed bow points and his mother’s hair.

 

by Marilyn Ball