Jar of Dandelions
From the window,
I watch little feet,
Slapping wet grass
toe to heel
in rhythm with the humming
of the simple summer’s wind.
Dimpled hands, digging
At the cool damp clay,
Earth and mud softly smearing
Between every finger, filling
the cracks and spaces
that separate each joint.
I stare at the glass
Through the double pane,
As I used to do at the museum.
I would stand and scan
The symmetrical walls,
Impressed with the collection,
Or aging frames, that captured
The art so profoundly.
From where I am now,
The paint is chipping,
The sill worn from washing
mismatch dishes‐
The glass splattered with suds
And corners yellowed
From dirty water,
drained from jars,
Filled with dandelions.
I loosely wipe spots
From where I most often look,
I don’t notice the dust
Or smudgy prints
Except in the morning,
When the sun climbs the hills,
And reminds me of messes
The evening has made.
I pull the curtain,
crooked to cover
A glow from the grimy glare,
Bringing my coffee
close till the steam
rushes toward my cheeks.
I rub the handle
And wait to hear
A rustling from upstairs,
As the day awakes
Night’s restless blanket,
And lifts the silence
That has settled.
Cahla Downs:
As a mother and writer, I often watch life and see the time pass by me, as if they were words streaming into my mind, like pen on paper. My writing is an attempt at etching these moments into history, sharing the intimacy, simplicity, and complexity of humanity. Using my passion as a poet, I want to give something back to this world that has so humbly given me life.
1 Comment
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April 4, 2015 at 11:08 pm
Very enjoyable read. Thank you.