I would skip
rocks
with my feet plunged into moss
curl my toes underneath mud
grip myself
turning a stone over in my hand
weighing it with every rotation
to make sure it wouldn’t just
plunk
to the bottom of the brook
though if it did
it would not be lonely
because there are plenty of others
who have
sunk
to the
bottom
and nestled themselves
even after they’ve skidded the rapids.
TDM
If only i could lie
in the grass for more
than just a little while
I could graze the atmosphere
with my drifting eyes
turning my head this way and
that way
I’d twitch my ears
to tune them to the sound
of daffodils being kissed
by tiny insects
I could wipe my nose clean and
inhale perfumed stardust
that would shake itself off
and hitch a ride on currents
golden flecks falling through my hair
hovering first like a halo
and I would not mind nibbles
from creatures polite enough
to make their presence known
take what they need and then leave.
TDM
the trees are polite
they bow to the wind
whenever it pushes through clouds
and knocks upon their cracked bark,
their aged and writhed skin,
contours of time shaped by the hand
of everything,
blushes as gusts brush upon them
like the touch of a lover’s face
pressed against a lover’s face,
comfort, sweet and warm
to contrast rough and gritty,
overwhelm these monuments,
make their leaves shake and whisper
to one another, excitedly.
TDM
The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.
Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.
I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.
I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.
T. DM
I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.
When we were young
we scraped our knees
and it felt good.
We looked to the street
lamps like golden lanterns
to light our way home,
as luminaries with promises
of warm blankets
and sweet delights,
and for that, we knew
when the day had ended,
when our breath finally
caught up with us,
for we were certainly
more inclined to hold
warm hands and
turn over our beds
while our hair clung
to sheets of perfumed lilac,
the last trace of warm weather,
and covering our eyes to
hide from the harvest moon,
we laughed ourselves
to sleep through thin walls
of in-jokes and outcomes.
T. DM
Poetry and Prose by Teresa Di Matteo 