- Call of the Quail
- When Color Was New
- My Hands Still Smell Like Soil
- Urban Tongue
Photos of prairie fire and monarch butterfly by LeAnn Spencer and Steve Duke
I taste words on my tongue like corn husk and orchard
feeling each letter and syllable come out of my mouth with the
knowledge of a complete sentence.
I need to describe the stream,
its rush and urgent journey,
with authority spun from ankle-deep hours
in the cold water.
We speak the language of the earth that is under our feet.
And so I stutter when I say concrete and
crab grass. A splintered coughing of hard "c's".
I mimic childhood check-ups with the long “aaaa” in alleyway -
words sadly imprinted on soles
too far from home.
Copyright © 2007 Patricia Cronin. All rights reserved.