| Florid, fluted, flowery petal, flounce of a girl's dress, ruffled fan, striped in what seems to my simple eye an excess of extravagance, intricately ribboned like a secret code, a colorist's vision of DNA. At the outermost edge a scallop of ivory, then a tweedy russet, then mouse gray, a crescent of celadon velvet, a streak of sleek seal brown, a dark arc of copper, then butter, then celadon again, again butter, again copper and on into the center, striped thinner and thinner to the green, green moss-furry heart. How can this be necessary? Yet it grows and is making more of itself, dozens and dozens of tiny starts, stars no bigger than a baby's thumbnail, all of them sucking one young dead tree on a gravel bank that will be washed away in the next flooding winter. But isn't the air here cool and wet and almost unbearably sweet? Copyright © 2017 Ellen Bass. Used with permission of the author. |
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