Golden Currant ( Ribes aureum )
Locked
down to an acre
alive
with spring's current,
silver-gold
greyed green in
the
storm's blue sky farewell,
each arch of yellow stars
on the hill petals honey,
drenches the stench
of rats in the brushpile, of death
with vanilla.
Old dog in her grave
sleeps
under shadow
as
I pass and remember
her
breath with my breath.
Circular
rites of the riding mower
trance
me an order
on a grass chaos'd dancefloor, dream me
away from the too solid walls
stale with
canned howls, wilted laments
demon-pitchforked
in piles
from
screens to my skull.
Shadows posture and strut,
sicken
and die, cry in
the
night under my pillow.
On
the hill, golden currant
knows this spring's secrets,
this spring of its hundreds;
just a silver-lined scent
from some hungry sodbuster
now dished in the dustbowl,
whose catalogue currant
is never
in fruit. Dead brothers
all, under the flowers
wind-snapped in March color
that will flood this dark rampage
with a
grave-sealing spice.
March 2020
posted for earthweal's
(themed for last week's 'Silver Linings')
Note:"Ribes aureum, known by the common names golden
currant, clove currant {etc}...is a
small to medium-sized deciduous shrub...The plant blooms in spring with racemes of conspicuous goldenyellow flowers, often with a pronounced, spicy fragrance similar to that of cloves
or vanilla... The berries were used for food, and other plant parts for
medicine, by various Native American groups across its range in North America" ~wikipedia
Photos Ribes aureum, March 2020 © joyannjones
