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.