By Jane Frank
That birthday
is still caught in faded
snapshots.
We searched
for stone candles
in the skinfolds of hills
found circles
in the process of becoming
squares
rocks becoming grasses
becoming curlicues
of twigs
tying
dandelion clocks
to weak sun-shadows
In the valleys
we found whole
yellow-emerald groves
snug in striped sweaters
dry stone walls
wound around
the knees of birches
We whizzed along
forest roads
and up onto bare slopes
where stone eggs
and flint loops
were busy painting the eyelashes
of curious hills
Transient hours
before a clutch
of crimson leaves
on a raised island
in a hidden stream
dispersed—like affection can—
in a gust of wind
I understand better now
that when rain falls
water distorts the colours—
real or imagined—
that art is sometimes
a natural extension
of old energy
sometimes
a stretch of belief
that what often seems solid
may be a cloud of web-fine wishes
released into the void
