Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Golden (A cadralor)

Julian Paren, "Chanterelle mushrooms
in Rheindown Wood

Drifts of fallen elm leaves swept
up and hidden in a bin, leaching
summer light. I spilled them out,
piled the gold to make a winter’s
bed for shadbush and twinberry.

The Scythians knew the bride-price it’d take
to gain a princess. Among their gifts—a pair
of gryphons in hammered repoussé, ready
to seize the light with their golden claws. Did
they prick her skin when she first wore them?

The well is deep. The water’s dark. The
coin I toss to wish upon—the sun, and I
follow it down. The only way to rise and
float is to empty my pockets, but I can’t;
fingers much too numb to grasp for gold.

Love is the thing without tarnish. No, that’s
not true, love is the thing that’s ductile. Ah
no, try again, love is the thing that’s nothing
like gold? Yes, better, but still not true. Love
is what’s left, after the riffling sluice is done.

Oh, beloved, I’d lace up my boots and lace
my fingers in yours, walk beneath the fir and
the hemlock, walk into the shadows to lose
our way, to find it again lit by the light of our
kisses, by the light of golden chanterelles.


To learn more about the new poetic form, the cadralor, see Gleam.


Dale said...


am said...