June

Somewhere there is a meadow

that has never met

metal, herbicide,

or the soles of bare

and rubber covered feet.

Each bloom located

by the wind or the animal

with severed blades

never bagged in plastic

but digested in grazers.

Somewhere the sounds

of speed and electrons

has never resonated

stalks to follow

invisible dances;

Instead they sway

-Robert L. Jackson III

13

Ringed stalks

knobbed from the gnawing 

of mammals

and browned in droughts

can bloom again

from beneath the decaying straw

in the wet Summer.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Patterns

Usually the sand spires

and hardened bridges

succumb to the rhythmic

and predictable tides,

but today it is the pattering rain

that pelts the surfaces,

slowly texturing the walls

into uniform dimples

that lower it to the horizon.

The deep moat fills

and slowly erodes the walls; 

fracturing off and filling themselves in

until the confined liquid reaches the banks 

and overflows into the gate and courtyard.

The realm of crustaceans,

quartz, and salt 

fall to the sky,

that awards it's subjects

with sintering embers each dusk.

Awakened by the lapping sea,

the warriors observe a flat beach,

rippled only with wind blown dunes

and the debris lines of tides,

piled high in rusty barbed wire seaweed,

bleached broken shell shields, 

and the spears of mangrove seeds.

-Robert L. Jackson III