I walk out the door. It’s Monday. It’s April. It’s Central New York. It’s complicated. The wild fields lie flat, the color of wet straw, felled first by frost then snow now sleet and rain and wind. The ground is still stiff with permafrost, daily softening. Nearest the brook lies some hopeful green. Mud season again when the earth speaks in secrets. I find a jawbone, a saucer, a small skull, the bottom of a clay vase. A lawnmower once hidden by waist high burdocks. I don’t hope to recover whats been truly lost, those things that live on in my heart. I don’t hope. It’s enough to collect the bones between snow banks and rocks, between winter and spring.
Published by DungaBrookDiary
Vicki Whicker is a member of the Los Angeles Poets and Writers Collective and Bright Hill Press Poets. Published by Mo+th, 12 Los Angeles Poets, Big City Mantra, Literary Mama, and others, her poetry and art photography are featured in the anthology Seeing Things (Woodland Arts Editions, 2020). A collection of her poetry, Caught Before Flight, published by Woodland Arts Editions, debuts fall 2020. A wild child at heart, in 2011 she moved to central NY to renovate an 1920’s farmhouse that she bought, sight unseen. From a post on Facebook. Her art photography grew from there, she’s had solo and group shows, and is collected on both coasts. She describes her photography as Bucolia, in that she recreates central NY with her signature style—as a hyper saturated dreamland. View more posts