Two Pieces

Sam Calhoun

Start the fire

The winds have shifted-

they eddy around deep 

holes where I dug dead

blueberries last fall,

never filled.

Between them jonquils

missed by the spade

raise yellow bells, 

nothing ringing, deaf,

so quiet.

In the dark, squinting,

I can still see your

prints through clover,

tracks pressed to trail-

Through red clay wild 

strawberries,ours to keep? 

Their tendrils shuffle 

humus, each toe a root-- 

Start the fire, toss

the rotted wood from

raised beds, how termites

make their trails, taste

the memory of trees-

I can still see my prints

at your grave, sunken,

worried in circles, 

my own life an eddy, 

never filled. 

Late, light clicking

Late, light clicking 

off bare branches,

diurnal advent sundial,

the clouds stratified,

in stasis,  never see

how the sky begins 

to wilt, never hear

the hushed temple 

of earth as I tear 

out spent cosmos

from your grave, 

the hard stems 

ripping my hands.

Sam Calhoun is a writer and photographer living in Elkmont, AL. The author of two chapbooks, “Apogee” (Origami Poetry Project), “Follow This Creek” (Foothills Publishing), and co-author of “The Hemlock Poems” (Present Tense Media). His poems have appeared in numerous journals. Follow him on Instagram @weatherman_sam.