1 post tagged “sue scalf”

           Voices

The roundness of a river stone

forms upon the river foam

a small oh,

and that is all it speaks.

Above the marsh

one low cloud

follows a tidal path

and makes no sound.

A curling leaf loops down,

touches the ground

and settles with a whisper

so quiet only grass can hear.

On winter shafts of air

when wind lifts fallen snow

to rise again, we cannot know

what seeds are speaking

what prayers.

Sue Scalf

The Children of Summer        

         "We write to taste life twice." - Anais Nin         

White banks of clover

draw them like bees.

A welter of scratches

and skinned knees, children

know the bliss of running.

choosing sides, choosing friends,

making a chain of flowers,

patting out mud pies.

Dirt-smeared and sweaty,

they taste sour grass,

split maypops and hold

on their tongues the fleshy seeds,

pick passionflowers

that wind along the fence,

sip nectar from honeysuckle.

Making pacts, telling secrets,

they climb trees,

bombard their enemies

with pawpaws and chinaberries,

take prisoners, make treaties,

tumble and get up again,

cry and sing until the sun sets

and fireflies appear;

then heavy-limbed and sleepy,

children watch the moon,

a silver quarter they're too tired to spend

instead, they tuck it away 

like a coin tied in a handkerchief

kept for ice cream.

Sue Scalf

Reprinted from What the Moon Knows 

Christina's World

Alone is a word that stalls on the tongue,

chokes the throat; it is beyond solitude,

for it offers no choices. It is a landscape

barren and bleak, gone brown

with the last of the hay,

winter soon to come. Here she sits,

crippled, hair disheveled, one hand

clawing upward toward the house

on top of the treeless hill.

there is no sound but the wind,

the whirr of grasshoppers.

Gray as the empty sky, the house

with its open dooor calls her in.

Ladders lean against the roof.

She knows each room, the barn,

the clothesline, the world

from her window.

All is clean, scoured with light.

In the night, boards crack,

clapboards ring with cold.

Day and night her bones ache

with a namesless desire.

Sue Scalf

Reprinted from What the Moon Knows