The light is slant, crepuscular. The purple clouds like mountains
map the progress of the stars. The dark membrane folding
into gaps where the sky burns open.
The crocus flames to dusk. The blossoms lost to trees lose
muted lilac, pink. They leave the leaving.
My eyes survey the least of it— the air, though chill, sparkles.
The petals stick. The season quivers.
Streetlights never seemed so sure as in the darkest places.
long ago in pleated fields
the honeyed breezes. The whiskered seeds aloft,
though tracks behind the hunter hasten dark
With eyes wide, rapidly believing
as in dreams, I am Lucy standing up
My hands are free. My legs are strong.
The new surrounds in jewels.
About Kathleen Hellen:
Kathleen Hellen is a poet and the author of The Girl Who Loved Mothra (Finishing Line Press, 2010). Her work has appeared in many publications including The Cortland Review; Prairie Schooner; and The Seattle Review. She is senior editor for The Baltimore Review.