Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 10 . . .


     by Marybeth Rua-Larsen

You squat in a sun puddle, tug petals

from star-faced dandelions, sprinkle

their crushed remains, like seeds,

across the ground. I try to teach you

the art of arrangement, pose

limp stems in jelly jars, like I did

for my mother, or to stuff your cheeks

with air and blow

their feathery seed-heads to the wind,

but you prefer your own game, wrestle

your bruised treasures from me and fly,

a hummingbird at twilight. Frantic

before torpor, you dart through the yard,

swipe a fistful of clover, grab

at daffodils on the other side of the fence.

You don’t yet understand

why you can pick dandelions

but not tulips, columbine or love-

in-a-mist. I have not yet found

the heart to explain it.

Marybeth Rua-Larsen’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in Measure, The Barefoot Muse, Snakeskin, The Worcester Review, Lucid Rhythms, and Paterson Literary Review, among others. One of her poems was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and she was a finalist for the 2007 Philbrick Poetry Award.

© 2008 Marybeth Rua-Larsen