June. We search for ladyslippers
growing by pines near boggy ponds.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs--
for now we feel free from dangers,
headlines. The forest's green deepens
June. We search for ladyslippers,
listen to competing songs--birds
belt out their latest number ones.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs
new grass. Take my hand, love. It's yours.
Last autumn's leaves, no longer bronze.
June. We search for ladyslippers
hiding from us interlopers--
when we talk, their silence responds.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs
briefly, a cat who wakes up, purrs,
runs off looking for liaisons.
June. We search for ladyslippers.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.