Trees

photo by Elizabeth

Years ago, my friend dreamt she was a camp counselor leading a group of children through the forest. She woke herself when she exclaimed aloud: “Trees are our friends!”

Frank Lloyd Wright, Stanley and I agree.

photo by Elizabeth, Flat Stanley loves the redwoods

America

photo by Elizabeth
AMERICA

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. 


Claude McKay, 1921 

Shenandoah Literary



In This Dream  

poem & photo by Elizabeth

IN THIS DREAM

They’re here!
I rip the package,
pull sheer stocking over toes, ankle, shin, 
beyond the line where prosthesis extends my leg.
This hosiery will animate prosthetic limbs, 
transform molded resin into skin,
skirts soon fluttering along my thighs 
as I skip on these feet, 
attract with these calves, 
no longer rolling on wheels or 
hiding my legs from pitying stares. 

I will be normal. 

Yet as I examine my stockinged leg, 
I discover the turquoise seam 
marking the boundary of prosthesis and flesh. 

Deformed, dependent, tricked by desperate hope, 
I fold and cry, knowing I’ll never look or walk like others. 

Perched on a nearby boulder, my Soul-body marvels 
at the powerful wings unfurling from between my hunched 
shoulders, grief shrouding me from their luminous tips 
as they rise toward the sun. 

Thank you to the editors of riverbabble for first publishing this poem.