Stirring white crystal sand
of bone meal into rich brown mud, she places each tulip bulb, coated in the dark mixture, a nest of kiss-shaped eggs, close, but not touching. In October’s now, she sees April, sealing it in, pats down the earth, like a sea-turtle burying her offspring. Maybe the bones’ phosphorous will glow a little in that darkness—guiding the shoots upward, as the luminescent sea signals to those baby turtles: This is your chance. Swim.
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The Last Possible DayOn the last possible day,
at the foot of a leafless tree, try to pop a perfect apple down, hurl a rotten one to loosen that wormless one, stare up, dizzy limbs shake against a still sky-- Breathe. Picture it. Follow through-- Thud of success. Bite sun-warmed, dusty skin into hard white sweetness. Quiet, then frogs buzz. The ears of a doe and two fawns flicker at the tips of golden brush, listening for dusk. #AncientAutumn trees,
chlorophyll-unmasked-- True colors only visible in the brief tilt of October light The house it haunts
is in your hand, bathing your face in its small, square glow-- You didn’t know: your sentence was a seance, phantom tapping from the other side-- flashing ellipses in a bubble: dot dot dot dot dot dot-- I've been following my extremely talented artist sister (@KirstiRingger on Instagram)—her drawing contributions to #Inktober this month are off the charts. I'm late to the game, but decided that I'd use the daily prompts to write something instead of draw, for the last 10 days of the month. My "ink" pictures will be of my very hasty, daily drafts! Today's prompt: #TREASURE. There is a tree that I've been in love with for years, so I decided to write about her specifically. Harlequin GlorybowerAs if it weren’t enough
that in late summer she blooms white fragrant stars, mocking jasmine, extending trembling threads of stamens, blushing shy pink underneath-- As if it weren’t enough that, when bruised, her hand-sized, heart-shaped, hair-soft leaves emit the smell of peanut butter (what insouciance in the face of injury)-- As if it weren’t enough that when her flowers drop, each waxy calyx hardens into a fuchsia tiara, a pointed pink collar-- As if that weren’t enough, inside each crown, She’s Placed The Treasure: a perfect, indigo pearl, an autumn jewel replacing every summer flower, A transaction in the inky currency of winter’s tongue. |
Ila AsplundTraveler. Baker. Beauty Seeker. Hiker. Paper Ephemera Collector. Sharpie Lover. Etch-A-Sketch Artist. Mondegreen (Misheard Lyric) Connoisseur. Public Space Ninja. Nickname Giver. Categories
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