santos scribes

I can

remember

them

well

but only

just barely 

how the

large bushes

kept

and

clustered

themselves   

into squat

hollow

half-trees

along

that chain-linked

fence.

their breaching

buds

yellow

(of course)

felt forgotten

or just

maybe fabricated

drops

of divinity

sown 

right there

into plain sight. 

no one

stopped

to be

with them

noticed

they were

faithful  

to that

scrap of earth

between

their house

and

the next 

arriving

each spring

to color

the dead

browns 

and the

dirty whites  

with their

tiny

perfect

cat-tongued

petals

their gaping

bowing

branches 

spoke

to me

never

using

any

words

at

all.

about this poem

remembering the forsythia that grew beside the house I grew up in back in Connecticut… thanks for reading xo, s.