Coleman Childress

I.
can you make (& say) your voice
like reeds or trees

to speak forever, in nothing
but roots and schemes like the appalachians.

when I read lawrence I see my mother covered
in lilac and eating honeydew. I

trim the grass & eye every stem: leaving their bodies
(or mine) in the grass
so that the soul sticks in the body.

‘the soul is in the eyes,’ too the grass, the roots.
it’s how we know we’re not hollow. you say:

we’re hollow though we can
eat from the treevine the fruit & rhine

of many wild things. you name them
pomegranate and grapefruit first.

around the tree we dance, around the tree
we dance
imprinting the dewgreen grass.

II.
an object is anywhere if you have
first seen and carried that object.

I kissed you while holston was flooding
around flowers, flowing allover together

you set them to paint immediately brushing
with the lambsear.

III.
everything is green here. The forest
of easttennessee is green with immense denseness.

there are many suitable hills for watching fireflies.
tell me they do not coordinate

both blue & green;
both colors are a different language.

the light, blue like mary’s mantle…
this light, green like okra.

sit with me; the wet hillgrass we have patted dry.
follow the footsteps & the moon aglow.

IV.
I heard you calling from the water,
calling above & you the water.

the reeds of your voice
diatonic in every imaginable direction.

the wind nears & the smell of it…
my memories are unwell…

& the cold or a memory or a smell.
though I feel the cold dew; hear the honeydew

plop into your arms as I into them.
saying a name in between mouthfuls.

The forest gropes with openness.
follow me in; lead me out.

sculpted wood hand peeled

a cross set in the

bradford pears and

white hung magnolia flowers.

the sky clouds left forward

and away. my promise is forever.

the trees covered by two lights.

yellowing leaves dark shadowy stems.

sun. the running of clouds with

tulip poplar & sweet gum. take my hand
in your hand and the colors will set.

the trees are whole. now the grass
is petaled in goldenrod.

wheat stems linger, covering
movements with stillness.

golden webs in the watershadows. I do.
I will now say my name with yours

sunsets obscuring white wind in the field.
the tents of laughter behind.

Say providence or proverbs, desire or
covenant.

locusts in the rushing green. I thought
I heard you laugh

or overheard. the coobirds
and others in routine over our heads.

I promise to be content.