By: Jean Passarelli
Last autumn was our undoing -
a cumulonimbus of fluffy tops and dark bottoms
that hit me right in the sky, with a blunt
objectification
While I am inside my body, it is mine.
While you are inside my body, it is mine.
Sunday morning leg scramble can’t change that.
Wind in the grape orchard, with its thickening lattice, cannot change that.
The purple wine has spilled,
but I’ll never say
“Here, you dropped this”
or
“Why do you make me work so hard for the good times?”
Fifty years hence, Concord grapes and clouds above
will still cluster in the most beautiful, purplewhite plein air,
and on vines sturdier than these.
A thanksgiving to ashes, to youthful faith in new blends,
and the ripening season.
Jean's decidedly Midwestern sensibilities find their way into everything she writes. She credits reading and writing with maintaining her sanity over the last year or so, especially. She has had poetry and flash acceptances, including CNP, but finds it a humbling thrill - every single time.