creosote
By Brad Barry
the morning’s sun illuminates your green
strands of harmonic hair
(the desert’s bright cymbals)
each filament shouts
reasons why we should walk among you,
and listen
we walk soft single-tracks
(your neighborhood’s disorganized, unpredictable sidewalks)
and loop and circle and return by your neighbors
(who always appear as someone else after the sun shifts)
and as we listen to wind weave through your waving tendrils
we (who forget how to see) learn anew
to hear
the evening’s sun highlights your glowing strands of braille
new visions narrated to those of us who lose sight
(by too much city that has dimmed our better set of eyes)
your illuminated italics remind us of who we are
and who we can become
the contours of your characters read to us
as we wake from concrete slumbers
to find our souls’ fortunes in your setting suns
creosote
your glowing green strands, cowlicks and split ends
need only to be heard
electric hope whispered
against the backdrop of our loud and busy lives
Brad Barry originally hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. He earned
his B. A. and M.A. from Humboldt State University (in California) and his
Ph.D. from Bowling Green State University (in Ohio). He is now a Professor
of English in St. George, UT.