Loaf Like Whitman Intoxicated
by Michael Feld Simon

Midday light slanting across the trunks
shining up from the yearning needles
the art and urge of lady slipper, of hound’s tongue
of pollen snow and moss. Sunlight dances with rain.
Seasons are rivers we seldom notice until they flood.
Have you reckoned the forest floor much, the orchids,
the fallen lichen, the hoof wells, the Ponderosa fans?

A sweet, cool blue day absorbs the whimsy and fright
of fallen branches everywhere, hanging or impaled.
It’s my bliss to be airheaded by wood rose and black current.
in this hypnosis of trunks, debauchery of green, euphoria of mist
we have world enough, and time.


First published in East on Central, 2014


 

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