Poetry

Secret Names

For a Secret Place

The Secret Place | pinhole film photo by author

We cycled down to the Secret Place
in the late November light
at that hour when the sun
touches everything with little
licks of flame

We walked down the Spikeplant trail
to cricket song, seeking letter chains,
calling everything by name:

the Finger Knives, cutting up the mud
the Puffer Seeds that blew from bloated cheeks
the Spade Leaf and Red Feather trees
flowering Marsh Tangle, too
the crunchy Toe Curl
Scratch-Bark tree, where winter owls make nests
the Fuzz Brush waving in the breeze
Spindle Fingers’ slow caress

Our roll call done, and specimens collected,
we returned to our evening home

Red light followed behind us,
red like the reflectors on our back wheels,
a signal fire reflected from the
other side of heaven

This poem is in response to an exercise in Susan Wooldridge’s book Poemcrazy…