JUDE GOODWIN

A billion eyes look up

I put some orange and yellow flowers
in the garden today, blue pot, black,
stuck them in front of something fern-like.
I talked to them, tucked their little root balls
in for fall. Now it's starting to rain,
and the river rocks open their mouths
like anemones, like a congregation
shouting hosanna in the church of dirt. It's been years
since they heard the voice of stone, eons
and still they gather:
stream bed, sandy shore,
cliffside and an old lady’s doorstep;
and still they believe, wait for salmon,
whisper about the 'big one', watch
the sky. At night the ancient darkness
barely knows them, but flame
is there. My flowers burn with it,
the big leaf maple combusts,
my hands, in the wet loam
murmuring and pressing,
remember its heat.

Published in the Cider Press Review, Vol 8. 2007