Writers write. Even when we cannot write. We write. Itβs only a matter of whether we stop and allow the words to move through us or not. Early morning beneath the tree, they finally flowed.
This is where I, along with all of you, have found myself this morning. At the mercy of of a muse who insists I write. This is my offering. It is all I have to give. It is the only energy I want to give when much more of it is needed elsewhere.
Of Minor Use
I stand before the magnificence
of a gulping Catalpa tree.
The natives called it Catawba
and I much prefer this letter flow
not for its reference
to the vining wines of this region
but because of the rooting
to my past
as a youngster ferrying
across the great seas
of the great lakes
toward an island that was not such
on adventures we were free to choose.
But freedom is no longer free
neither is our yearned-for youth.
Now, we pay the price
for our willful ignorance
for the deplorables who laugh
for me who laughed with them
called them likable anyhow.
The Catawba canopy
of whole green hearts
shades and shelters
my partner and I
as we cry our way through the morning
though it cannot do the same
for others who cry their way
through the other mourning.
Catawba blossoms I stomp throughβ
moonstone blooms I never took
the time to nameβ
appropriately flitter around
after a poetry reading on climate
change, yet we cannot change
the other climates brought
about by this desperate need
to proclaim freedom
when most donβt even get the history.
Finally, day unfolds, the grief full.
The Catawba tree
can no longer be contained.
Rapid fire raindrops aim
at its church bell blossoms
swinging from the trees.
The water guns of the sky
pelt flowers that fall to the ground.
The hollow sound each petal makes
a bell tolling for our children.
They say you can eat the flowers
though they are of minor use
to our bodiesβ bloated diets.
We would rather consume the beauty,
watch as opal blossoms wither and pale
die before our eyes.
AJW
5/26/2022
In memory of the children senselessly murdered at an Uvalde elementary school.
Of Minor Use
More than like I love it. Itβs amazing how your words flow. I could not in a million years be able to do that. You have a wonderful talent. Love you π
"...as we cry our way through the morning
though it cannot do the same
for others who cry their way
through the other mourning."
Keeping those who mourn close in thought & prayer. Thank you Annette