Oh-Kyung Jang, Subtle Rosy
If Only There Were a Butterfly Net for Catching
Pamela Richardson
A lock of hair, an empty room,
a bible to keep pressed petals,
one only opened for the purpose
of pressing. Perhaps, a bulb to plant,
so it may multiply an image, a song.
Intimations blooming every spring.
The feeling of flour sprinkled for
fresh dumplings, dusty and doughy,
rolled across a cutting board. The scent
of fresh cut grass and lemons that unbury
moments lost in the waking, working,
and waking, a balm for the desperate
tug of the clock’s hands. Evening songs
of cardinals and the aroma of borscht
carry the slow, crooked smile, the first
accidental touch that lit our skin.
Pamela Richardson
A lock of hair, an empty room,
a bible to keep pressed petals,
one only opened for the purpose
of pressing. Perhaps, a bulb to plant,
so it may multiply an image, a song.
Intimations blooming every spring.
The feeling of flour sprinkled for
fresh dumplings, dusty and doughy,
rolled across a cutting board. The scent
of fresh cut grass and lemons that unbury
moments lost in the waking, working,
and waking, a balm for the desperate
tug of the clock’s hands. Evening songs
of cardinals and the aroma of borscht
carry the slow, crooked smile, the first
accidental touch that lit our skin.