THE
FINGERS OF MY EYES
The Fingers of my
Eyes
Reach out to tremble
feathers of grass at road's edge
Reach out to travel tree-lined horizons
Reach out to trace white wisps of sky-breath.
The
Fingers of my Eyes
Reach
back to touch the faces of those I love,
Of those I left behind.
Reach back,
Stretch back
Five hundred miles,
Five hundred miles.
—Maggie
Kelley
FIRST SPRING COOL A sweet night air from high hill wood rolls, spills softly down fills meadow with first spring cool cool breath brushing, gliding gathering whispers of violets and trillium with old brown leaves brown leaves rotting, melting cradle-ing essence of purpleness and yellowness with first spring cool cool breath braiding, twisting quickening pieces of promises and yesterday with first spring cool —Maggie Kelley, April 1997 |