by Mona Mehas
obsession with the shape of trees
disturbed by easterly winds
like blades of grass, I weave my words
ringlets open under the summer sky
the sponge in my head is saturated
deep pores, peel the layers
a gentle breeze, my breath in tandem
to still me in my personal forest
Indigo Buntings bluer than my eyes
ear-piercing song from the field
Pipevine Swallowtail butterflies
sip on Beebalm nectar
gravity wants to hold me to the dirt
but I must return to the concrete
where radical acceptance of my place
influences my very being
held in a life, forced to adapt
to changes unknown by wind
my senses reduced to the mundane
Lord knows, there will be screaming
Mona Mehas (she/her) writes poetry and prose from the perspective of a retired disabled teacher in Indiana USA. A Pushcart and Best New Poets nominee, her work has appeared in multiple journals, anthologies, and online. She has published six poetry books. Mona edits for a small press and is a contributor to a Star Trek magazine. She is contracted for her first novel, editing another, and is perpetually distracted by her next chapbook.