Taste of Summer
I. The blackberries ooze in the sunlight
honey taste ripe at this pond of water lilies.
I hear the birds chirping and the grasses sway.
I run among wildflowers, breathe in a linen scent,
free pulse of adrenaline rushes ahead of me,
my prairie skirt flows with the brush of wind,
lingers in the memory of sunrise.
II. I wash my callused, chalky hands in
brown water basin, my pilgrim dress stained.
Olive oil mixes with soup from steam,
breadbaskets line the laced tables.
I hear the cook in the busy kitchen holler
at beaten maids, weary weighing them down.
I light a match in the dark timber at fireplace,
a few candles to eat supper in this evening.
But I feel like a slave chained to this ground.
My lipstick rolls under the wooden table,
I shield my eyes against the glittering lavender.
The veil trails behind me, dragging on the floor,
I dream of a funeral trance as I walk in sunlight.
Purple lineage streams down like a
water fountain over my hair.
Striped orange clothing in a chair,
big yellow button holds seams at center.
Scripted in a secret mess, it was sewn,
crafthand of time and work inscribes
signs of its origins, circling the rough fabric,
unrepeated lilacs and indigo, silver beads.
Rhythmic strides to an open window,
I gaze at the sun through my covering.
In the blanked purple carpet, my heart beats,
I breathe a lasting scent that lets me stay.
The fabric around me: my thighs, fingers, hipbones.
Crashing to the ground, I let my hair loose in the dirt.
Only this time, I was the fair maiden.
Winding my body around to fix myself,
the position of the girl is out of my reach.
My loose hair has knarls and dirt in tangles,
my eyes as crystal as the river.
I clean my skin at the riverbank,
my face is a chalky white amongst evergreens.
The light collects deep shades of shadow
while overhead a round-eyed sky
never blinks but stares blindly in blue.
Photographs in black-and-white reveal
inner beauty of the other girl, not me.
Until the moon casts darkness in trees,
its thousand changes burning into one.
The cranberry juice pours in the glass,
thick syrup washes down my throat.
I carry a basket of lemons and apples.
Rain collects in puddles on grass.
He comes with dirt marks on his forehead
a trail of paint, his scent of peppermint.
We roll in a flowerbed, pick off flower petals,
gaze at the sky, always groveling for love.
He hums a sweet melody and cuts watermelon,
in peace, I find a sunlight part of the garden.
We race in a game of tag to the end of the earth.
My hand touches moist dirt, I mold our heart.
I am the Great Alone,
the moon is awful clear.
Silence echoes in icy mountains,
only the howl of a timber wolf
as I graze in the half-dead frigid night.
As I listen to nature’s music beneath the night stars,
There is a human in the grass in a buckskin shirt,
I wander into a dark unprotected cave,
white snow from my rocky face.
Scavenger of the night, I scour the lands ahead,
we usually settle in groups on terrain, but no longer.
Mildew drops cover the grass, footprints wet,
my hunger taunts me to search all grounds.
Dreams of home: cloud-soft hands, defense.
Fishes suffocate from icy waters.
As the ruthless beast, I am safe from hostile creatures,
until a sudden tiger leaps from his mount.
With eyes wide open, I pounce at the prey,
the thunderclaps boom sudden ruin to the earth,
As dusk caves in on the eastern hills,
an untamed, fearless warrior
come to save all mankind.
Copyright © 2013 Samantha Seto
Samantha Seto is a
writer. She has been published in various anthologies
Fountain, Blue Hour, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black
Samantha studies creative writing and is a third prize poet
of the Whispering Prairie Press.