Cedar Rust

There was a crab apple tree in our front yard,
that ever end of April let loose,
its blossoms fertilized — the end of light scent.

It had been last October that I
leaned on that tree and
a thick branch fell beside and below:
there had been no hard fruit or turned yellow leaves
to litter the lawn that year.

You would not let me plant another,
in the soil, in the root mass beneath our yard
there is cedar rust mold from the junipers—
their blue pebble fruit does not bring scent.

You made me plant grass seeds,
and tear up vertical seedlings
leafed with light green and red;
they would only be diseased.

You are a ridicule of spring
and I have moved west,
to a faint scent of crab apple — it is an Iowa kind.

Dead Mums

A November
roared me down beneath the
soft-givings of a streetlamp
saying:
even in California
I have a chill
that counteracts the silhouettes
of palm tress,
sinks beneath
the things of plateau
to dusty pink one
in the morning.

But, the season was
confused that day.

November, in wanting of
the pressure of irises
began to cry; for each
curving open where
yellow streaks
into centers, he cried.

Sobbing, he left
love song
visions with the
touch of warming days
when all would
soak him down
and revel in November,

And walked away. 

They found him
in an alley,
blue-white,
frozen,
and spent;

They found him
cocooned between ages,
fed on tearings and pulp
slowly and methodic.

They found him
crystallized and transformed,
half way to April only knowing
the smells of dead mums.

There was no one for
farewells
or watching
of ashes scattered;

He was remembered only
as unseasonable.

Kathleen  Farragher is a student at Beloit College, where she edits the Lit/Art section of the weekly college newspaper. A musician, activist and writer, Kathleen helped to found Beloit's "Take Back the Night"  organization, and says she sings as a daily habit. Kathleen was born and raised in Bergen County, New Jersey.  

Copyright 2000 Kathleen Farragher