by Elsa Johnson

Our friend in Iceland sent the scene  :   a grave

yard    stone-cross studded   grey-sky-grey-sea    and

in another shot a rainbow muted  —

melting   —  pale cold sun a-slant old stone walls      

It is always changing he says        That was

on the Solstice  —   two hours and fourteen minutes

of diluted daylight      My mind boggles

over this  :  twenty-one hours and six

minutes of dark winter night after night  —    

all of them tunnel hours     Our northern sires 

knew nothing else             Perhaps it was a gift   —   

that slow time  :   to sing  :   to  carve  :   to love in

darkness                    No  –  no –  no turning back you say

not for us      We are through the looking glass

by Elsa Johnson

Perhaps it is the wind.

You cannot see a tree grow

a twist. If a tree is started on a turn

it spirals over time,  a right hand

whorl or left,  movement taking years

to reach visible  effect.  You can walk

in a grove of old trees,  all standing

straight,  spot one,  then two,  twisted

in opposite directions. Why trees do this

puzzles:   once the turn has started

so must it go on. Is it like this also

for children? Does the twist toward fear –

suspicion –  hurt –  happen early

and unnoticed, and is then bound

to the growing grain?

O Changing wind:   give my buddings

a veer toward joy.  Twist

them gentle.

 by Elsa Johnson

The buck

Came trotting up my sidewalk

fast

nose to the ground

nostrils        wuffling

swerved

just before the porch steps

– at the top of which

I was standing –

glanced up

and back down

fast

as if to say:

   ‘Human

   at this moment

   you are not remotely

   important to my life’

and hustled on

too obsessed

to be flag-ish 

One track mind

ten point sex

drive

The nose knows

what counts

by Elsa Johnson

My mother will unpack herself from her box of

ashes   move to a comfortable chair   look at me

critically   and say : You’re wearing that?  And maybe

this time I will have the will to not run and change

my clothes   My father will reassemble himself from

the soil under the lemon tree in Arizona   come

north for the day    sit at the table drooped scowling

over his cigarette like a crow or Ichibod Crane   

while my brother who brought him mutters  humph

humph at all he disapproves of on principle 

which is everything —  my house   my head   my heart

Toward the end my dead lover will come   line them up

and dance them all back to dust…   while I smile and wave 

Crying :  Goodbye!  Goodbye again…    Same time next year?

by Elsa Johnson

There goes another notch on the wheel  :  goldfinch

changing his summer garb to drab sparrow guise –

the way the missus goes all year  —   only a hint

of yellow leaking through as he barbers sunflowers

And now comes actea round again   she of many

names —  cohosh   bugbane   cimicifuga  :  Fairy

candles    that open their small white asterisks

and cast out their honey-scent to draw in late

bumbling bees    The trees are breaking their too-

green-too-chemical bonds    Origami is at

her drawing board in the attic lost in dreams of

color:  crimson   vermillion   and coral lake   In

the wings   dragon quietly fans his icy breath

listening for the next notch of the wheel

by Elsa Johnson

In spring you can

eat her :           green honey

and white             dripping

from fingers    toes    even

skin       is        How sweet.

But now Gleditsia’s shedding

Her honeyed skins

drift                her hoards

of gold                        wash

through our streets.

Here comes             dragon

slonch-wise

scales a-chink              fire

in his eyes                    ice

on his breath:

Mine          he says         all

mine.            In a few weeks

selfish as death               he

will burn these trees

                                    clean.

by Elsa Johnson

Witness   the leaving –

the green

leaves the green leaf    

Attend

the edges

where filigree begins

Witness    the spread

of potlatch color on

leaves’ palms     

veins     blazing

the green

away.        

Calibrate    

the green receding.

Eclipse the crime : 

summer’s     

too green 

too chemical

bond.

by Elsa Johnson

After Blueflags

(Homage to WCW)

We stopped to gather pods

from the milkweed plants

where they grow

in the meadow

amid tall grasses

that wave

as wind blows

and rain falls

and runnels the ground

toward the swale

where we planted blueflags

one spring

in water

with sunflowers beside.

The milkweed pods

are like fat fish

which we pull

from stalks

and carry

in our pockets

and our arms

to the ditch

where our hands grow sticky

with white sap

as we pull apart pods

for the seeds inside

lined up like fish scales

tied to silk threads

which we rend and scatter

so they drift

in wet air