redbird

by Allister Nelson

And the seasons turn, cherries to tomatoes to pumpkin orange.

There is not much constant in nature but effervescent change,

like how lemons taste on the tongue, or the path of hurricanes.

Even the laws of gravity get suspended sometimes, and love

is an old book in a New England parish that has seen better

days, all antiquated rust on the locket inside it of your great

aunt, farms to marrow of skyscrapers, tradition to upstarts to

a lack of faith the youth seem so content with.

But I fear God,

and I am the bones of winter, and it is only in planting beauty

that we can hope to reap the corn and sow spring, what regret

these ghost towns have in the Appalachians,

the run of the meat

is hickory, best smoke it long and get washed out to sea, paint the

fence white, and build your dwelling on the village green so you

are the center of attention,

twist and turn at a soc hop like it’s your

grandparent’s malt shop dream, sweet teeth, in me are leaves of

hauntings, and to fall from a sycamore and swing from an oak

is but the path of angels lit on fire with the coming Thanksgiving,

my cup runneth over, it never satisfies me, as four and twenty

blackbirds fly and the scarecrow rots. But that is just a rumor,

and the truth of me is dusty lace and spiced cider, let’s die together

then burst green in May, immortality, transformation, harrows.

In the county church, there is an old grandmother bowed over.

Were that I had her constance.

Click here to read Allister’s bio.