Can’t find the glades where we walked naked when
we were siblings and grandchildren of trees,
and knew their bark and bite and silent wants,
their stretch, rustle and girth, their touch and love.
Perhaps if we were unashamed, we could
call them to us, and live innocent as
roses in gardens formed to help them grow
without sharp armored spikes for protection.
I know roses have thorns for good reasons—
but clothes also fold lies around humans
and mask response and intention alike,
making restraint the sole task of victims.
In glades of youth we had problems, of course,
but grew to know each other free and whole
as rooted saplings by fast streams where bees
once washed their pollen bags and did not sting.
Can't find the time to visit parks where we
once came to know the trees and follow bees
from brooks to honeypots among the pines
and knew to touch and love without the sting.
Poem 9 for April (poetry month) inspired by and its prompt for ine which is to include a line that you’re afraid to write.
*Note: All April poem-a-day poems are rough drafts awaiting revision.
Copyright © 2016 Susan L. Chast