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Borders – by Helga Kidder

Posted on Jun 17, 2017 by in The Originals |

Releasing the body backwards

into pool water slackens limbs

as the spine presses them into duty.

The sun’s hands cup my face

one last time before she lets herself fall

behind the plateau of Signal Mountain.

Roses cascade flowerets over the fence.

Magnolia buds hustle branches,

perfume my nose.

Will the crepe myrtle redeem itself this year,

tomato plants’ golden blooms

push out a bushel of fruit?

I dive through pristine water to the bottom

for pennies, surface to the smiling shark

thermometer bobbing up and down.

Hydrilla, kudzu of lakes and rivers,

forms an impenetrable mass,

barring fish and humans.

Hovering above hostas the little stone bird

links sky to earth.  The American flag

hugs the pole and absorbs weather.

Blue sky fades to light gray.

Solar lights flicker their first flame.

Cicadas tune fiddles in surrounding woods.

One mile below, worms tunnel

and thrive an abundant life.

Braille of existence without light.

Soon the invisible sun gilds the moon,

forgiving night’s growing shadows.

Who is luckier than the stars?

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