Why did Dorothy’s
slippers become a
fiery red?
They were always
silver
like strands of
tinsel billowing from
the beaks of blackbirds
in formation,
lifting up into a
caulked grey zone
above the outstretched
hands of dreamy
caravans,
streaking starspilled
skies ebbing and flowing
like the heaving chest
of God in a righteous
slumber.
Wake up –
I pass an estate
sale and am pulled
toward the buzzing
hum of a concealed
magnet.
Propped on draped
tables are trinkets,
battered books,
woolly coats,
and a leathery
parade of
clutchless
purses.
I finger the engraved
pewter of a baby spoon
and imagine the faraway
giggle of a peachy toddler
beyond the musty hallway
where strangers pick through
pieces from a departed one.
We carry her seeds into
vaulted spaces smelling
of citron and spruce.
Clutching the spoon,
I toss my dirty hiking
boots and slip into a
speck of silver.
WILDsound Festival 