Tag: june

fulcrums

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Poem, poetry, summer, WyomingLeave a comment

pinpoint the moment,
the fulcrum,
where verdant green life
slips into hot summer crackle,
Sun-steeped leaves
aromatic, chamomile-like
parched beneath our feet
all those places a hose will never reach,
a scent in your nose
reminiscent of a birthday hike
on switchbacks
to stand properly on, and in shadow of,
“The Grand”,
a surprise, teal, alpine lake.
was that the time he dove from the rock like a young god, an Adonis?
all those trips to Wyoming in August, in June,

begin to merge into one core memory,
a hunk of young granite
carried down in rock slide
then, carried all the way down to the valley in my pocket
for him, to give to him, on his birthday.
i ran down that mountain like a gazelle, ahead of them
it was the fastest and freest i have ever felt in all my life, truly
and, i astounded them, all, — and myself.


then, a long, quiet drive back to
a newly dog-less house
how did this all happen in one June, one August, or — was it two?
then,
the first time i felt a chill in months,
a different kind of crunch underfoot
the wind rained down
a carpet of leaves all about, in an instant

just as they appeared at birth,
all golden again,
but different, wiser,

a frost sets in.

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le claire [street] in june

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Chicago, Gnosis, june, Narrative, Poem, poeme, poetry, summer, TreesLeave a comment

originally published june 17, 2016, revised june 11, 2023

* please visit the website/app Falling Fruit to add a fruiting tree that is located and accessible in the public way to the foraging database for others.

the author’s mulberry-stained fingers

A clear glimpse
A clear thought
on this clear June night

Of age,
and Alzheimer’s
the old-timer’s disease

A clear memory recorded and archived tonight
An acute awareness of myself
tonight, in time and place
a new track to play on loop for a listener in my future life

a husband, friend, or son
a caregiver, a kind one
a visitor, volunteer, or nurse,
a grandson, or maybe — no one

A reddish dog, eating mulberries
from the sidewalk in shadows
Mottled concrete in the dim light of a city street lamp
obscured by the canopy of that beautiful, June, fruit tree

Woody Guthrie, the mulberry forager

A woman, middle aged, seems so young, even a tad pretty, in her mind’s eye now
Stretching her still strong body upward for plump, dark berries
Reaching for branches trimmed too high by the urban foresters
or arborists or surgeons, I forget what they’re called

On her tippy toes
grabbing, pulling, picking
squeezing the dog’s leash between her thighs
don’t let him get loose in the dark, don’t let him get skunked in the dark

contorted mulberry tree at night

the same contorted mulberry in Sun’s light: wowowow

Some of the best ones are lost in the awkward tussle
before she can palm them, save them, taste them
She triggers a reverberative rain from boughs on high
That precise, delicate sweetness of the bounty in her mouth

The dog’s belly full of the ripe windfall
sustained by both gravity and this woman
His name was Woody, or Digby, I think
He used to climb into our sleep

Smashed and whole
The street, sidewalk and cars stained
by the impressive purple mess
the dark grass hiding perfect treasures for doves tomorrow morn

She and that dog,
They were urban foragers and gleaners in June.

All month long, her fingertips, feet and lips
tinted with their fuchsia dye, it didn’t even once occur to her to check his paws

A clear, recollection of acute melancholy:
this day — that day was also her son’s birthday //
The first birthday he ever spent away from home, away from her — in Nebraska, or was it Alaska?

That glorious tree, that good dog, that golden boy

an impressive purple mess-feast

2023 addendum:

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