
Poem: Something Sweet
I've spent the last three weeks trying to write something about books, non-fiction books specifically, but I've been having trouble putting the words I really want to say down. It took a little while to realize that this is my blog and I can post or not post whatever I want. The book post will come, but I want to get it right. Until then, here is a poem I wrote last Spring about missing the wildness that lived inside me when I was a child.

Something Sweet
I used to press
honeysuckles to my
lips. Bite
then suck
one after the
other.
They were so
soft and
sweet.
Now I press
my mouth to
shoulders, lips,
backs, heads,
hands.
Not all are
soft.
Not all are
sweet.
I need something
to keep my mouth
busy so I don’t
speak too
much, too
loudly.
I talk
when I’m
nervous. I don’t
want to tell my
secrets too
soon.
I used to dig my
hands into the
dirt searching for
treasure, staining my
fingernails
black.
I unearthed cold
polished stones,
bleached white
bones, abandoned
ant homes.
Now I caress
cheeks, hold tightly to
hands, tear desperately
at bed sheets,
clothing, anything
that will keep me
grounded.
But I can’t seem to hold
on anymore. I lost the
dirt under my
nails, threw away
my treasure, forgot
what flowers
taste like.
I want to build a garden
of honeysuckles,
dig into
the earth to
find its
history, stop
grasping at manmade
material and sink
my toes in the ground
that made me.
Anyway,
Stay in touch!