My Arkansasby Lindsay Wirth
Little Rock in my pocket
hovering honey bee over the heartspace
like the june fireflies in nana’s mason jars
twinkle blink until they fall sleeping
like snowflakes patterned powdered sugar.
into the secret, locked watermelon
rind of remembries. i go each time i see
the first signs of rain that thunder perfume
as the grass bows toward the mountain.
and mom’s crayola tulips, pink still reaching
each spring towards the tiny tear torrents
beading down and buoyed manila,
the wintry river traffic string wipers
and the headlights dashing them home.