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To Kiss the Earth by RUTH DAIGON

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RUTH DAIGON To Kiss the Earth The moon sings the mountain down to the sea as the sun wraps itself around the horizon. Air runs like a hand lightly across the body. Voices pirouette like echoes in a braid of flowing tongues. We trace the flicker of dragonflies skimming the water, their imprint light as ash. We hold fruit with its sweet flesh, sac of seeds, silky membrane fitting the palm perfectly. And it is time to kiss the eEEarth and count freshly painted stars running ocean ward. Here where there is only stillness, my love I wish upon you these delights the lotus moon still blooming as we exchange liquid looks as dark as antique honey time, calm and airy and, oh, to wake up naked in the garden and fall in love again, easily, so easily. Copyright 2006, RUTH DAIGON, all rights retained

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Everyday Some People Are Going Home to See Who is Dying by LYN LIFSHIN

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LYN LIFSHIN Everyday Some People Are Going Home to See Who is Dying my graduate school office mate with her father and grandfather alone in a big Victorian said, "I never know who'll be living, who'll be dead when I come home." For weeks, small girls in pink pajamas are dying in wrecked trail under a heavy pervert's garlic stinking breath or hog tied behind a rusty pick up. Death shall have dominion Thomas said but lately it's the main thing on TV. The line between the living and dead keeps moving. What does it mean when you start to read the obits? Every morning the ambulances streak by the park I walk thru. Someone tells me "lost at war" is easier to live with than certainty of death. When Arthur Miller died, who didn't think of Marilyn going before him, staying beautiful in our minds as those who linger won't Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained

poetryrepairSHOP v06.09:106

A Curve in Time by RUTH DAIGON

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RUTH DAIGON A Curve in Time Walking tames the wilderness.. Inching over a segment of soil, we find dill growing wild through sidewalk cracks. and we can almost hear the voices of the dead. These are the clear days fragile as air where the hours grow pale just below the ribs of night. . We live in collusion with the sun and conspiracies of light and climb secretive into the atom's heart. Between a hard rim of daylight and the trough of night time weaves a wide shroud while the sky's shy perimeter draws near and nearer before one last leaf fallen to earth struggles within its solitude to rise and return to the bough. Copyright 2006, RUTH DAIGON, all rights retained

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