LINDA RUSSO

 

 

 

 

Three Yard Works Sutras

 

heartwood core

 

The quick poem, small
as a splinter, sticks to the grain of
planted thought hovered around
bee quick and doting

On a fire-hot day or slow and not
lazy in the time-lapse growth of
green things, they speak, we listen

We feel echo sure of
our weight here
what else are we for

Moving toward shadows moving
we’re stirred, energetic, forget-
ful, solid, slow and sure
as wood from trees

For in trees we calm, aging
always steady sure waiting
heartwood core

 

 

sounds (tremendous tree shade quiet)

 

it’s cool air waking up
perhaps more than sounds

perhaps more than hot scent tea
it’s squirrel claws on bark

it’s arrival of sparrow
perhaps more than cold exposed toes

perhaps more than myriad green growing things
it’s powdery dull white waning moon

perhaps more than sounds
it’s solid feel of wood chair

it’s squirrel claws on bark
perhaps more than shade mottled picket fence

perhaps more than cold exposed toes
it’s sun glinting off utility pole box

it’s powdery dull white waning moon
perhaps more than deep mellow slight smoke scent

it’s solid feel of wood chair
perhaps more than hot scent tea

perhaps more than shade mottled picket fence
it’s arrival of sparrow

it’s sun glinting off utility pole box
perhaps more than myriad green growing things

perhaps more than deep mellow slight smoke scent
it’s tremendous tree shade quiet

 

 

harmlessly somewhat hopeful

 

Somewhat hopeful for
claiming space for wind blows
leaves blow let’s not
romanticize that bugs don’t
crawl don’t worry

Squirrels don’t pitch in
with mighty tiny lungs
tiny songs they’ll sing
darting at shadow that’s
a moth not a leaf

Sideways goes the song
headlong but fluttering
traffic of thoughts
can’t direct
announce new rules

New rules replace old
doubts anyway anywhere
unawares

Sound hits ears
and curves away from ears
without grand equation
mind following matter

Don’t get lost don’t
hike aimlessly to its destiny
underfoot overtaxed trails
to where hearts sing

Beyond fringe of trees
harmlessly somewhat hopeful

 

 

 

Linda Russo is the author of three books of poetry, Mirth (Chax), Meaning to Go to the Origin in Some Way (Shearsman), and Participant (Lost Roads), winner of the Bessmilr Brigham Poets Prize, and To Think of her Writing Awash in Light, winner of the Subito Press Lyric Essay prize. Find out more about Linda Russo at inhabitorypoetics.blogspot.com.