An evening of Myth and Poetry

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annette meserve, storyteller, business, facebook page, writer, author, poetry, fiction

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February 1, 2017  in Trinidad, CO

annette meserve writing storyteller poet author fiction flash short stories novels



on the Shelf

Look close,  
there it is.

​A tiny point of electric green,
almost imperceptible, 
but nonetheless, 

And once you see one,
your eyes find many, 

a sprinkling of bright new life

the potting soil darkness. 

Herb sprouts are so impossibly small,
spreading like a fireworks display, 

the first few bursts, 

the harbingers

of the sudden explosion to come, 

their color surprising

in the night-black expanse. 

Herbs are not like our baby trees, 
who announce their arrival
with a disturbance of the dirt 

very slowly growing 

into a mounding... 

..a crack appears 
and a glimpse of white-green... 

...then a tiny bright arch 
pushes up... 

...and curving spine 
hauls a brown seed head 
into the light...

...finally straightening 
and spreading nascent branches 

into the air and sun 

Their birthing is days long. 

Side by side on the planter's ledge, 
sit the tall and the small 

in their little pots, 

unlikely roommates 

drinking in the fine mist 

from my spray bottle, 

each entering the world 
in its own fashion, 

according to its nature 

every little life, a magic trick. 

The basil and the oregano, 
will grow fast, 

quickly outstripping their neighbors, 

maturing by summer. 

If all goes well, 
they'll soon be ready to season our sauces, 

our pastas and our meats,

our breads,

​our eggs, 

and even our ice cream. 

But the trees will continue their slow
meditative progress, 

ponderously reaching 

millimeter by millimeter 

up to the sky 

They won't be mature plants in my lifetime 
and yet, 

I can squint at them 

and see tall straight trunks 

and broad needle-covered branches. 

I can see squirrels chasing and gnawing 
magpies squawking from down low, 

crows cawing higher up. 

I can see people, 
​maybe our descendants, 

maybe not, 

gathered in the shade, 

sitting at the picnic table 

that they've built there. 

They talk and laugh, 
and with forks clinking on plates 

of herbed pasta and rolls, 

they share community 
and the fruits of their own garden 

in the shadows of my mighty sprouts.  

                               ©2016 Annette Meserve