Notations in diaries bear the passage silently,
without thought, without promise
documenting those fleeting sensations
that somehow tell us how
we are truly alive.
Even as we descend each year
to our darkness and to our death.
To experience what it feels like
to have no place in your life
slipping through my fingers,
even as we know, Beloved,
that it is my life slipping through yours.
So we embrace in the darkness,
planning for planting
our peas by the full of the moon.
Posterity (possibly)
History (certainly)
Nature or Nurture, no almanac or scripture knows for certain.
Only this:
For every thing, there is a season.
Reason and passion traverse time in cycles.
The Law of the Land.
It seems harder now to be truthful.
When trees are barren, when whiteness blinds
and earth, frozen and asleep cannot,
will not, accept our seed.
So easily bored,
dreams are scattered through the bony fingers
of this soul piercing wind.
Dormant Creativity.
Memory, in its way, thaws the soul
as I suck in dreamy whiffs of honeysuckle,
iridescent green rain, young warm prairie grass.
The scent of a woman with great potential.
Smelling of promise
exhaling prayer towards a bountiful harvest
and against temptation.
Aromatic Imagination.
I ride cloud formations each evening before dusk,
thinking that the soft patterns and diffused light
might serve as a tool
(a screwdriver, a monkey wrench, the nuts and bolts of calmness).
With the right tools for the job at hand,
each day grows into the next.
Finally, work in the garden has begun.
Visions of Progress.
I absorb damp breezes between red flannel breasts.
My thighs ache and a river of sweat cascades off my left nipple.
I'd like to lie naked in the shade
or barefoot in the garden.
But my feet intrude upon the afternoon repose of copperheads,
lazy and innocent beneath the mulch.
And the cool beckoning grass harbors crawling things,
not so innocent,
waiting there to bite me.
Tactile Paradox.
Come to me in early June
and I will place a sunwarmed strawberry
upon your parched pink tongue
sealing it with a kiss.
The sweetness laughingly dribbles from the corners
of our greedy mouths
trickling down our throats
merging like tributaries into rivers of sweat and desire
Downward, always downward
along the contour of our nakedness
to the fertile crescent waiting like
Kundalini rising
to and for your Touch.
Procreation on a lazy afternoon.
I listen to whip‑oor‑whills and hear crows.
And sometimes,
in a deep summer bed,
I lie surrounded in locust mantra.
Rising. Falling.
Trish Evers was a professional artist
and writer living in Wheaton,