John Muro
Go, then, and gather
up your promises
as plentiful as queleas
rising near dusk or
the air-borne shoal
of pollen so dense
you could be looking
down upon the surface
of wind-wrinkled water.
Go in the dew-dripping
grass with your head
bowed in contrition
like a fiddlehead fern,
lanky arms dragging
an over-worn pouch,
bare feet shuffling
thru a dust you cannot
shake, and tell me
what it is you come
away with beyond
strands of spider silk,
naked needs and
a wayward whistle.