Kathleen Vibbert is a poet living in Indianapolis, IN. She writes mainly
nature poetry but some narratives. Her previous credits include The
Electric Acorn, Facets, The Dallas Morning News, and Spillway Review.
The Zodiac hums. Rain oils
my shoulders like eucalyptus.
I fill bowls throughout the garden
with thistle and sunflower seed.
My canvas is a collage of Gemini
and Leo, as I begin to count backwards,
until moments leave the room.
The violets are not to be discarded.
Wildflowers my daughter once carried,
appear in a dream.
The trumpet vines stutter -
too white to be the sun,
too pale to fully open.
A dragonfly settles onto wet paint;
I begin again.
Clover is fresh, honeysuckle
mixes with evening rain. Lupine
approaches yellow branches,
as leaves squirm
to loose themselves from
orange and green thongs.
I am leased from corridors,
humpbacked from years,
Roots tap against my ankles.
Trochee rolls off my tongue
toward night wind.
A Cherub's face encircles
an oak tree.
The mountain stands,
a tripod against morning.
I sit on cold stones with no spines;
roll a cinnamon stick across my tongue.
Leaf-tips grow silent as our journey
follows saplings, unearthed. Vines strain
toward the cool. The earth hums
through a lyre's belly.
Every hill is olive-skinned.
Clouds roll into balls of fur.
You are miles away, but dew
and sun reach the greenest shoot.
I am your word shadow,
inside cedar wood -
Cornflower and Black Eyed Susans
shine along the roadside
as I become a surveyor
of honey threads.
Further along, I find a body
wrapped in salve, and bones
from fingers that no longer write.
Buds spring forth, leaf follows leaf,
and what was once surveyed,
becomes a child's story,
torn from the tails of creeping vines,
captured between lacewings--
and carried to the goldeneye.
Crowning in the Field
The air scents and vines
in every direction.
Only the curve of a blackbird's
wing is visible, far-off.
I grow older, not wanting
the comfort of a courtyard,
mint tea or satin slippers.
My steps are gazelle footed,
my bones stiffen. I miss my gold
kimono and the autumn
that dropped fire into my lap.
God's voice waves over the hills.
Seeds lie flat, await their crowns.
The fields are neither barren nor lush.
Back to Front.