rows of boxwood, houses where porch
swings had folded the accordion
sounds of wind and rocking away.
At dusk, as though to hurry
us along the path, fireflies--
also called June bugs
here--circled our heels.
The hours are always ripening,
like fruit we have chosen
with our own hands.
We climbed the stairs and poured
wine to make the glasses ring,
toasting the future, which means
what cannot return.
At the beginning of the new
year, I slid open all the drawers
in my house and found a nostalgia
which was the color and odor of a different
season in another country--
preserved skeletons of flowers,
brittle as dry wings, sheets of hand-
writing, ambiguous as the sea.
When I lie down to sleep a tree
rises up in the level space
behind my eyes, its arms chalky
like ash, its bodice thin as a paper
shade or the shadow cast by a lamp.
I gather the leaves at its base, I gather
the singing that sings to me, that yet resides
somewhere high up in the branches
that I cannot see.
(c)Luisa A. Igloria
from Trill and Mordent
WordTech Editions
Cincinnati, OH
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