A Pretty Good Ditch

The ditch continues to inspire, taking on a meaning of its own. Here is a poem by my friend, Feral Willcox

A Pretty Good Ditch

In deer tongue, speak to me of summer

warming rim of trapdoor sun flowering

rayless across polygala lute-strung tunes

spun in open worship, lovely blueheart stung

awake by bristle, by brine and horrible thistle. Now

be gentle with me; little metalmark stretch out

the white headthoughts and their trains, longleafed

and violet as spindle veins; break me away

from fear bane, flea blame hopping

from name to name, no mercy in ladies’ tresses,

orchid on the grave of indoor friends, wooly

with mullein comfort and bogged in buttons,

zippers spidering up the guts of judges’ purses

webbing over sundew, dwarfed by the towering

warts of saints, johnpaulpeter and their bobs

for gaura floating in the oakleaves. Now

I am gone from church rooms and the greymile

tombs of highways, out

into the Temple.

~Feral Willcox