the bigleaf maples that hung
like mid air vineyards in spring,
their long racemes
of yellowish green flowers
heavy as grapes. Now
they have the anemic yellows
of leaves folded
like handkerchiefs waiting
to be pocketed away. That alone
should have alerted me to loss.
Haven’t the blow-wives long lost
their beautiful heads of white hair
to shearing winds?
Still, there’s hope you’ll stay, right?
Like the woolly mule’s ears
with her long blonde hair
you too feel at home
in the cool air,
one moment clinging to me
like a monkey flower to a fence,
as if intent on staying.
And yet the next moment
I sense you don’t need roots
–that like a moon jelly,
there isn’t a rock
or a patch of soil or a man
that could ever
anchor you.
by Bob Bradshaw
Editor’s Note: This poem is a study in metaphor and simile, with the heart of the poem set squarely in the middle—loss.
Leave a Reply