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Another Dandelion Poem

Another Dandelion Poem Basket of Summer The bill of greenness is not paid in full, Deeper in dust the Piper plays and still They follow him into the beauty hill. For the fine flower, for the white silk bird, For the deep fire and the plum we lost in dreams-- Each summer comes and sways and touches us-- Each summer dies and leaves us all alone. --Marion Schoeberlein Summers follow summers in an endless chain, Water Striders on Papermill Creek (after a lithograph by Richard Lang) Do they delight in being lighter than water, or is their only grace that of predators? Once I saw an emerald hopper vault the creek and miss. My father never spoke in images but drawled his cliches and hollered them at children passing. "I could walk if I had a hoe," he said. Oh, the water striders danced then on their wet web, came swiftly striding on telegraph stilts to cover the carapace with living hair. When they had finished their gravy and meat "Can't use a hoe in the house," I explained, and he grinned a twisted "Hrrumph." "But in the spring," he said, "I could lean on a hoe all day. If I had a garden." He addressed the words to the window where the snow they picked their teeth, told a few jokes and then went dutifully back to walking the surface tension between fish and bird, between shadow and sun. that had nearly kept me home seeded the sky. He gripped the idea hard like he gripped the hospital bed, like the cancer gripped him. "Never know," he said, "come spring, I may pop up like a dandyline." --William Witherup --Carolyn Reams Smith http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Another Dandelion Poem

Appalachian Review , Volume 14 (3) – Jan 8, 1986

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Basket of Summer The bill of greenness is not paid in full, Deeper in dust the Piper plays and still They follow him into the beauty hill. For the fine flower, for the white silk bird, For the deep fire and the plum we lost in dreams-- Each summer comes and sways and touches us-- Each summer dies and leaves us all alone. --Marion Schoeberlein Summers follow summers in an endless chain, Water Striders on Papermill Creek (after a lithograph by Richard Lang) Do they delight in being lighter than water, or is their only grace that of predators? Once I saw an emerald hopper vault the creek and miss. My father never spoke in images but drawled his cliches and hollered them at children passing. "I could walk if I had a hoe," he said. Oh, the water striders danced then on their wet web, came swiftly striding on telegraph stilts to cover the carapace with living hair. When they had finished their gravy and meat "Can't use a hoe in the house," I explained, and he grinned a twisted "Hrrumph." "But in the spring," he said, "I could lean on a hoe all day. If I had a garden." He addressed the words to the window where the snow they picked their teeth, told a few jokes and then went dutifully back to walking the surface tension between fish and bird, between shadow and sun. that had nearly kept me home seeded the sky. He gripped the idea hard like he gripped the hospital bed, like the cancer gripped him. "Never know," he said, "come spring, I may pop up like a dandyline." --William Witherup --Carolyn Reams Smith

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1986

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