Costel Iarca  © 2008 All Rights Reserved

Old Grove

My dream a tree-line, dark
With undue calculations.
The gist: something like my
Best age—ten or eleven—
Yet stranded and solitary

As a wing-plucked wasp.
Undergrowth like arbutus
But scentless, withering.
The voice I hear is deep
Within this gloaming—

A land meant to loathe,
A voice meant to heed.
This old grove tolerates me:
My indolent whine, such
Loitering, shrugs of youth.

 

Jon Ballard
Copyright © 2008

 

Jon Ballard’s poetry is forthcoming in Broadsided, the Maynard, and Right Hand Pointing. He is the author of two chapbooks: Lonesome (Pudding House) and Sad Town (Maverick Duck Press). His chapbook, Trees Make You Think of Other Things, is forthcoming from Foothills Publishing in 2008. He currently lives in Mexico.

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