Hands test my face. It’s nervous grooming,
finding little hairs on the chin which sprout
every other day like crocus into some bad,
Nightied and barefoot in the inner world,
I play piano inside the worry line,
cabbage vein temple pop.
I need a walk from town to woods,
away from the wooden table with its
bruised fruit, hardened bread crumbs
and hanging herbs. The apple
in my loose pocket makes
me a rich woman.
Freedom’s as cold as a spring dip,
the early cherry, the forsythia.
Kathy Ireland Smith