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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3344 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention A Journal Page Taken by Wind Laurie Byro To land at the feet of a stranger, I have written psalms in the basements of churches. I have chanted hope in temples guarded by tiger lilies along a gravel path. He said we could meet beneath the tarnished blossoms of a golden chain tree. I am not certain what I am seeking, whether shadow-mice or real will lead the way. Summer is finished. Pine needles and berries dried and fallen into the fire of autumn. In a lotus pond, a carp idly fans its extravagant tail. An owl swoops and seizes. A thrashing gold-petal drips with blood. I ask its desperate wings what it knows of elegance, of beauty. The wooden door is bolted when I reach the pavilion. I quiet temple bells, crush them to silence in the mossy cotton of my skirt. The windows are fragile with frost. He unbraids my hair with delicate fingers, punches a hole through windows made of rice. We only have an hour before the bottles of wine lose their magic. My husband will awaken, start to pace, circling our room. As I hurry back, tiger-lilies growl deep in their throats. A carp troubles the water, cleaves cold pebbles of rain with its fancy gold tail. |
