The Crone Explains

By Bertha Rogers

In my dream I cut down a huge

spruce (an incantation to win a man).

The authorities issued warnings but

I made away with my catch.

For years I carried the tree’s heart

in my pocket. When that prize 

commenced to talk I set his

red self in a lidded bowl on a table.

An oak gnarled at the casement,

shaded the room. Leaves gartered our

arms and hands. My heart’s voice 

expanded at the edge of such wildness.

Then came a time of mistaken

blue perceptions, apertures stuffed

with silk sky; stars who presented

themselves as smiles.

Together we walked across a twilight

meadow, green hand to hand. We 

spun above crossed clover. Day 

fell like coins thrown by an assassin.

I discovered a secret stream. 

Entranced by its sliding song,

I halted. He stood in a yellow thicket

His face drawn.

A rise indicated another, more 

portentous rise. We attempted

the climb but glory evaded us.

Without words we gave over.

Time turned hard--black

shards, windows eyeing blinds

narrowly. The moon roughened,

and the sun forced conflagration.

To keep out the elements

we sealed every opening but

dissension worked to raise 

the sashes, pry at locked doors.

We circled, our lawyer minds

contriving rights and obligations.

(Our ideologies were divergent,

histories incorrect.)

His feet were expelled to fire-

split clouds. His eyes pitched up, then

back at the grass. He wept skyward,  

then that old heart disappeared into dust.

The past holds the covered bowl;

the bowl hides its emptiness. 

The table supports the vessel; 

time, the weighted, humbled table.

(Previously published, Toad Highway)