Elizabeth Wuerffel, Sycamore Seed Pod, Photograph
The sycamore can have a hollow trunk, enough
to shelter someone of my size, and yours. I lean
against you, the parking lot light a small moon
over your shoulder. Late summer cicadas,
the first dry leaves and seed flares – fireworks
if you could see up close, like the meteors
we missed last week, a galaxy of stars moving
away from one another as though they had never
touched. Your two hands are at my waist
the small lake dark, in the distance. Close your eyes,
imagine how King Xerxes of Persia sheltered
in a grove and forgot what he was fighting for,
or against. You know, the sap you can drink
like water, the fruit like a fig, or mulberry,
siga mora. When the trees come down, magic
turns them into barber poles, lard pails
phonograph boxes, the paneling for Pullman
train cars. Tomorrow, you will board the train,
seeking some surprise that shows you how
to feel your way back through the dark.
Marci Rae Johnson is a professor of English and the Poetry Editor for WordFarm press and The Cresset. Her first collection of poetry, The Eyes the Window, won the Powder Horn Prize and was published by Sage Hill Press in 2013, and her second full length collection, Basic Disaster Supplies Kit, was released by Steel Toe Books in early 2016. Her chapbook, A Dictionary of Theories, won the Friends of Poetry chapbook contest for Michigan authors in 2014 and was published by Celery City Chapbooks.