5
une alluvion
D.W. Stojek
That day there was a perfect paragraph of green grass, resolutely
demanding to be read: begin with tone, if you will, the conjunction
of bellflowers and timorous phlox indicating a passage of immodest
reflection that leads one forth, a caesura of twigs fallen from
the same maple that shades this page...
Midway through, the clearing-cough, as a patch of weeds interject,
as if to startle the swallow,
Alighting.
A pair of moths diacritically flit:
together a tilde, an umlaut when they split. Dandelions punctuating
like little suns implicating, bickering, over semantics, a switch that threatens the entire enterprise. We are, finally, brought to root (decaying as it does
to rot); concluding with the ash furred squirrel whose tail curls into a query mark.
So engrossed, I had not noticed the cast of the sky when my Mother
beckoned me back into the house from my afternoon outside in the side
yard. I gathered up my odd troop of wooden figures: farmers (these two had been wrestling tubers from their fields, both men, grim in their endeavors,
but pleasant at heart), a postman, who had spent the majority of his day