Darlings and Dears
Is it the mind that insists on smoothness, or the eye. The perfect sheen of the clementine is tested only when I pick it up, divots and pores, a soft spot. The gather-round-y’all hospitality of the American folk song, which came from somewhere else, like everything here except the land, and the thunderous misery of the lyrics if you listen. Dead lovers, women gone from us forever, so it’s like they’re dead, even if they’re not, Susannah, Clementine, all darlings and dears. The water is wide, and the valley is low, and from down here the mountains look like they’ve been baptized with powdered sugar. From far away, the river is a ribbon, satin, and if you were shoved down onto that quilt of grass it would probably feel good, wonderful, even.