Still Here
Cut grass, sweet and fragrant
Spring’s trademark
You could bottle the stuff, sell it
At Neiman Marcus
It punctuates my days
From sunup to sundown
Like the lady with the beehive on the elevator
Heavy handed with her perfume
In an effort to try hard, too hard
To cover her transgressions
Sweet smell of store bought grace
Smells like childhood and memory
Out there
Skint knees and day-light savings time
And those pint sized 747’s go from here to there
You could set your clock by their work
Pollinating and cross-pollinating
So focused on their work
They produce guilt
In the poet
They, single-minded and task oriented
The artist, wavering and wondering
And I am still here
Left in the wake of new beginnings
Wallflower, wondering
Why poetry dried up
A heart mining deep
Caught in transit are the words
I come to a ghost white page
Blinking cursor like an old school marm
Tapping her impatient brograns
Where are the words you claim you
Bought and paid for with your living
Where is the poetry
Saved up
On the floor of the mason jar
Like lightening bugs
Gasping for air
Still here
Polishing, pruning
Mining the story
And praying hard
The words don’t return to ash
And dust
For lack of air
Breathing deep
Still
And restless
Poet warrior
Her pen, her weapon
Seeking peace
And moving the sprinkler
To water the words
Celebrating
Poetry Month
In the still quiet
Of irony and longing
Joining Laura Boggess for Playdates at The Wellspring
elizabeth w. marshall 