Corolla Whorl by Megan Windom

Corolla Whorl by Megan Windom

I.

If October is like a garden then May is like a field.

October brings with it the harvest,

full of plump pumpkins ready to be plucked

and baked into pies or carved away as decorations

for the front porch.  To be nestled in

amongst the piles of red and yellow

leaves that wait patiently for the children

who will scatter them away again. 

But May is opportunity. 

An open field that doesn’t hint if

it will be overgrown by wild flowers

or simply roll out the grass from the year

before with spatterings of golden dandelions

waving in the breeze as they slowly wither

into white puffs blown away with the wind,

only to blossom once more in some other field.

Earlier today a road curved around a fence,

crowded by trees with branches full of green leaves

so tightly fitted

to each other that the sun was unable

to penetrate the ground beneath them. 

A biker in a sky blue jacket was hunched

over his handle bars, oblivious to the shadows

as he leaned slightly to the right and followed

the white line at the edge of the road.  He moved

outside the bike lane, but that was okay

because no cars came toward him

or moved up behind him – the road was his alone. 

Except for the trees that reached

overhead and would eventually try to claim it

by dropping their leaves on it, covering their possession.

And this too was lost beyond the untouchable

 shadows under the trees. 

Where stones grew from the ground,

spaced evenly, but not grown the same. 

In the morning mist, the tallest were illuminated,

by the grace of their stature,

looking like silhouettes

against the glow of the fog.  The sun swept

across the fields, trying to reach each small stone.

Once in a dream I tried to breathe water. 

It didn’t hurt because I was made of stone. 

I watched the air as it left my lungs and rose

above my head in small bubble clusters. 

The sun was playing

across the surface of the water.

I closed my eyes to try to feel it, only to find

the blue water wrapped around me too snugly.

II.

I never thought life could be a waltz.  I speak in threes, but

count in twos leading up to fours.  The Foxtrot

is how I live, a beat for each arm and leg,

moving in circles and stopping in each corner

of the box we occupy.  I was once

the wallflower smiling away the anxiety

from having no partner, yet for years

now you’ve spun me around the floor

between steps on each other’s toes.

Believe me, what happened next

both turned my head and made me look

through the corners of my eyes – trying to see

and not see.  There are days like that,

when the problems seem to grow so

large that they’re hard to look at, but encroach

upon my peripheral no matter which direction

I look.  Perhaps in these situations it would be better

to stand firm and give them

an unwaveringly hard look.

The worst thing you’ve said to me

was “I’ve ruined everything”

These days I’m like the female trapeze artist,

hanging only by your arm that’s wrapped

around my waist as you cling to the bar,

trying to balance yourself and lift me up. 

This isn’t how I actually see myself. 

I haven’t felt that helpless for some time now,

and though I know I’ve let you swing me

through the air before, sometimes I think

I’m the only one holding the ropes now

while you dangle dangerously at my wrists

thinking it’s you who has a hold of me.

Listen: I’m pulling in and forcing out

each gasp of air to feel the blood pulse

through my head.  There’s much I don’t know,

but simply feeling my chest rise and fall

to the steady droning of the birds in trees

outside my window is enough to excite

my tranquility. I live to feel the vibrations

of the land humming around me.

Once in October, we lost ourselves in a corn maze.

We went out with a large group of friends,

bought cider, hot chocolate, and neon glow sticks

to wear around our wrists.  As the crowd surged

forward – eager to navigate the unlit paths – we slowed

down, hung back, and made a break

in the opposite direction when they weren’t looking. 

Adam only came with us because he wouldn’t walk

in front of us, but our hands grazed each other as

we ran, taking shortcuts where we weren’t supposed to

until we were completely lost. 

Our maps did little to show where we were.

But it is not October, it is May,

and right now the fields are full of grass. 

The dandelions are popping up, but I can’t wait

for them to turn into fluff and float away.  Instead

I think I’ll pick them all to cover you

and claim you as my own.