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Everything here is free that matters
by Phibby Venable

The purple sway of irises–the yellow bells
The implausible caress of the wind sweeping
down toward the valley
Even the evening frogs in caustic croaks
Their harsh songs deep toned and true

Some evenings I watch my mother at the window
Her eyes sweetly following the ridges
she will not run again
The sun ignites in a parable of days
that are both here and somewhere in her vision
Her frailty rushing my spirit to a fierce love

Some days I almost know the strange wind voices
The subliminal letting go that flows
from hill to hill
The high pitched urgency of crickets
lifting their worries from within deep grasses
The way the stars burst in pearl white explosions
at the center of the night easel–
And the random ones that fall


 

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