The Usual Place

The creek at Peace Valley Park


Meet me at our usual place.
You know, 
the one we found together.
The sun is bright enough
today to paint glitter on the creek.

Let’s both bring our lunch.
We can eat it after we go wading.
If the creek isn’t too high,
I might cross to the other side
just to see what the view is like from there.

We’ll walk as we go talking, taking in all the scents of the woods,
from honeysuckle to loamy earth. You always did like
the way it smelled like the sea where the streams met.

I’ll bring an Inca Cola. You bring a Jarrito.
We’ll crack them open by the shade of the hollow tree.
You can point out all the plants you know by name.
Me, I am still learning where to find mugwort.
Maybe I’ll be successful growing my own this year.

We’ll talk about all the boys
who did us wrong.
We’ll talk about the ones who did us
right and the creek will laugh
as it flows right over the rocky parts.

We’ll talk about places away
from this creek, the honeysuckle and the woods.
You'll talk about England. I'll talk about Japan.
And we really will mean it
when we say we wanted to see them together.

Meet me at our favorite spot.
I’ll be there even when the sun has set,
when the water’s laughter is whisper above a hush,
when the honeysuckle's scent is spent,

and the moon paints mourning silver on the creek.



Song Choice: The Space Between from Disney's Descendants

The Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Where Are You Placed?

 

Sakura

What magic to be
included in the dancing
of a sakura,
from when it spun from its tree
to the moment it lay still.



Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings prompt, Liminal Space.

April Can (2021)

April can be kind.
April can be cruel.
April is
April after all.

April must be
at home in Alice’s Wonderland—
October’s petal frocked twin,
hiding her teeth behind a teacup.

April leaps
up in yellows, pinks, and greens,
determined to grow out of spite
of the winter before she arrived.

April is especially hard
this year, demanding a new start
from an earth whipped sore
while trying its best to live
after the dying winter. 

But April can cry
right alongside you,
keeping company in quiet mists
or keening with you
in inconsolable storms.





Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, April.