Wilderness Interface Zone

April again,
the wind
falls in love with itself
skipping across asphalt
and concrete bare
with the breaking weather.
A rainbow
is half arched,
broken off deep
into the aorta
of the sky.
It hangs
from elastic
rubber bands
of mixed colors
dipped in God’s
inkwell,
airbrushed
by the fingertips
of Michelangelo.
April again,
the wind steps high.
 
2007
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Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily [...]

I
Rain comes to the man in the field, steady
rain that soaks his shirt.  He makes himself
alone a few paces from his tractor, takes
off his hat, lifts his face to the clouds.
The woman runs from the house to drag
clothes off the line, but having done it
she stands outside the back door, her arms
full of wilting sheets, [...]

After breakfast the moon hangs
almost near enough to touch.
I do not resist.  Cutting across the lawn
I walk west past the row
of apple trees, climb the log fence,
crush soggy leaves deeper
into the pasture grass, duck under
the next fence.  From here on
I choose my way carefully through sagebrush,
scuff my shoes against yellow rocks
until the edge of the [...]

There are whispers in the
Cedar—
out here, cold cuts breath
like bone;
birds crack twilight
effortless as manna.
In the morning I will
break camp with fog—
wander listless valleys
lucid as a salmon in rain.
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Bradley McIlwain is a Canadian-based writer and poet who lives and works in rural Ontario. His poems have been published in national and international print and online magazines. He [...]

Out the front window
I see
A robin
Scouring the grass for
A worm
With a precise lunge
Her beak drops to the earth
And returns with
A wiggling prize
Most of us will enjoy Spring
Those who remain uneaten
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Greg is an actuary. He lives in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and three kids. Once, he wrote a bunch of Haiku about actuarial [...]

Spring came Early – Winter stayed Late.
The Pumpkin Cat Savaged its Fate.
Now I See with the Robin’s Eye –
Now I Sing with the Robin’s Cry.
His Burial was in the Air.
His Body warm – I could not Bear –
Below the Soil to crush his Rest.
His Feathers breathe in last year’s Nest.
2 April 2008, Orem, Utah
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This is [...]

Because it is May, and the sun
Yawns over the mountain –
The birds turn into accountants –
Grass dews under the Day
Because it is Thine, and the trees
Grow next to the hedges –
The way connects to the edges
Of sky – And life is mine
Because it is Spring, and the air
Dawns out of the canyon –
The east reviews [...]

Mysterious March morning storm –
Not lonesome – desiccate, but warm.
A male duck lying in the leaves –
Not living – emerald, one grieves.
A branch serves as a sextant stave –
Piled stones on leaves appoint a grave –
Prompt hyacinths on higher hill
Could contemplate the silenced bill –
Nearby his counterpart – awake –
Who waits – not wallows [...]

You, but not you.
The earth braces itself against
my first spade full—ground softened by
my salt—unearthing roots  like fingers
spread to sky, claiming a blessing
or, at least, an answer.
You are earth. You. But not
you—we never buried you, and
I never saw your face in death.
I’m alive, yet not alive.
I walk through shadowed valleys and
I find the Tree—not fruited, but [...]

There’s nothing like an apple
Not a thing
In summer, fall, millenium or spring
The crisp, collapsing clutter in the mouth
Wet sugar squirting east, west, north and south
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To read Mark’s other Spring Poetry Runoff Competition entries, go here and here.
*Competition entry*