Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Time The Wind The Fire

Time The Wind The Fire

All night I was
the great heart of the wind
that beat its fever-pulse against the walls.

I was the white rabbit-cloud that streaked
across clipped-lawn stars
nose-twitched over endless indigo
for the wet green of missing spring

til I was taken from the air
betrothed to a wasting fire
burning page after wind-turned page
of my book of flesh unread

...the sound of a child's blocks tumbling
smoking in my throat     bare
wild summer feet pounding down a
hollyhock hedged alley
pink and rose dancers            far above my head
flamenco'd to the sinister
July castanets of bumblebees...

So all the night
of burn, blow and running,
all the fever,
became me
the hedge-wife of time
the wind
the fire,

of the pages
of this crack-skinned volume
all its words
all its summers
all its secrets,

all but the waiting
blankness of

folded leaf.

~April 2018

for Brendan's Transformations

 Images: Landscape of Ruins and Fire, 1914, Felix Valloton
Untitled image by unknown author,, via internet


  1. Oh, my goodness, this is so completely wonderful I am speechless. Such gorgeous writing, Joy. Impossible to quote the best lines, for they are all the best. Wow. But I love the hedge-wife of time, wind and fire....and the effect of that last folded leaf is profound.

  2. Ah... sublime. This, right here, is why I have loved your poetry from the very first I read almost a decade ago.. Not time yet for the last leaf to be folded.

  3. The wind is howling madly here, making a perfect backdrop for reading this poem. I often think of all I contain, assembled and washed up over years of living, and realize that it will all vanish along with me when I go. It's hard to imagine in that it contains that confrontation with my own mortality that I avoid most of the time. All the blood sweat and tears, the loves and hates, the lessons and the can all that just evaporate with a final breath? My mind reels.

    So good to see you writing, dear BFF. No one else does what you do so skillfully.

  4. I'm with both Kerry and Sherry. This absolutely is a signature poem from you. It oozes Joy ;)

  5. The last leaf reveals the entire tree. Jeezus Hedge, you rolled a perfect game. I hear Job's cry in this -- you made this bag of spells and thralls, now you would outblast it with "wasting fire?" Only it burns greater than the last, and the wait was worth it. Thanks so for joining in.

  6. This is truly astounding. I love the lines about the bumblebees. I love the last unfolded leaf. I read this and say within myself, this is real poetry from the soul.

  7. Such an amazing poem... love how all the images "trickle" down to the essence of the last folded leaf...

  8. This is tremendous. The identification with the powerful dance of nature.

  9. I love the imagery here - the story unfolding in such a fantastical way, part creation myth, part lore, part concrete block burning to cinders, the ash smoldering - the dizzying rise of the ethereal goddess rising from the burn - and the 3rd stanza just has me sucker-punched and "stupidly" happy to be witness for the pain of it all -

  10. This is very special and unique, I love it all but especially “all the fever became me, the hedge-wife of time, the wind, the fire” beautiful,,

  11. I always enjoy how your gorgeously surreal imagery pulls me in. I gloried in the freedom of the first two stanzas, was dragged through the pain of burning and destruction in the next four, and found hope again in the final two as I wondered at what may yet be written on that last leaf.

  12. we live in the wind, don't we? and it's blowing harder and harder, and drying us out faster and faster - yet at the eye, this last leaf, calm as death. you arc this from night to stillness. each re-read brings more out. a stellar pen, Joy ~

  13. It is an earth shaking moment when we realize and become who we are supposed to be. I was born from nightmares, dust and the moon. Powerful revelation in this.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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