Wild Plum Skins

You are wild plum skins burning in southern heats

You are golden cups of sun bowing shy hot trees

Loved and pruned by dew-rouged maidens of the Rhone

You are the clarinet in the pagan glade, the tambour in my heart

You are the celebration sung by the grandparents before they die

Midst fat babes and trellises raised by earth-magic hands

You are the mystic limbs whose caress tamed the packs of yellow dogs

You are the woman who wept at the emerald view of Toledo

Because you could not descend from its skies

You are the rhythm of phosphor wavelets beckoning in the Caribbean night

The recumbent lightning of electric air, its silver hauntings

You are my still water, the scarlet shadows in my mist.

1 Comment

  1. May 17, 2013  11:25 am by Melissa Pope Scott Baumgartner Reply

    This is lovely and thought provoking Barton.....

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