Wind clears the meadows
pasted along the wild edges of morning.
Fake amethyst mums in brittle pots
vie for attention in the saccharine heat.
Boats moor with anchors rusted
as stone mermaids rest patina fins.
Raise your glass in the seaside bar,
stems curved close to the salty sky
to honor the stellar magic of breathing-
our lives, pine trees in mid-winter
with snow covered needles on the ground.
We sip rum on a glass-bottom boat,
dance while knees pop our age,
squint cloudy eyes at a waxing crescent,
cheat at checkers on the back porch
wearing cut-off shorts and ragged tees;
arch our spine to pet the stray cat who
wanders the marina,
as the wind clears the meadows
pasted along the wild edges of morning.
Becky Parker is from Appalachia and enjoys a tall tale. She is also the founder of Briar Haus Writes.
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