We’re always on the edges of the landscapes we belong to —fractured mint leaves and blackberry brambles turnover in their bounty on our roadsides.If on the way to the crumbling castle we smella fig tree’s honeyed drops fill with water, ease in their skin sacks,seeds expand to suck rocky soil’s moisture,we only know a part of their story. What would it taketo erase distance, merge for a moment into a fennel’s bloom,fragrance and resin clog our human mind enoughthat we slip out of its lineation?If on the way to the centuries old church in noon’s no shadow,we thirst for an olive tree’s pressure to pump fruit to form,if our hearts skip in our desiccation, what need have weto hold on to non-belief in the all-powerful outside of ourselves?Let sheep bells…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025