April 5, 2012

The Password to Larkspur Lane

A crumbling fence,
rusted sign: No Trespassers.

Mustard spreads wild and dry
each side of the road--

a sparrow, it seems,
or finch for each
loud, yellow, nodding

bloom. You said Walk west,
I'll be behind the chain-

link.
No warning
about thorns, thick arms
of studded blackberry,

or the feathered, shrill
alarm raised with each step.

So much for stealth.
Past the dying cottonwood--
the drainage ditch.

Pitched forward down
the dusty slope ringing
abandoned fields.

At the bend, suddenly
all quiet: a thousand
gaping, silent violet mouths.