from a photo by amy murre klemm
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by Amy Murre Klemm
this One, I never knew the name to call when the Image
again flittered through my brain, of the place I ran
like a savage as a child through swamps, forest, junkyard;
of the Scent of sawdust in a hand-me-down coat, the one fragile
yellow Lady’s Slipper on the hill of ash trees, which returned
every year, alone; of the Purity of muck and soil, bobcats
spooked and running through rows of late Summer corn,
angry red-winged Blackbirds and Cattail hearts so sweet;
of the slow descent back into the Earth, so much metal settling
down to sleep, the smell of rusting and of the Sun on glass, the
eerie presence of a million Souls in all those blank windshields
~ first published in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle
