Morning

The sun spins silk over

gold threaded hills that ebb

and roll and spill back onto themselves

while the morning mist lifts

like a loomed lace mantilla revealing

slivers of ecru, lavender, moss ~

that cast shadows of what

seem like a million horizons.

Cypress meander like drunken crusaders,

grapevines stand steadfast, shackled

in rows.   Olive trees bend gnarled in low

genuflection, like women in church

who’ll both gossip and praise.

And on the ledge of a hillside basilica

the birds line up like notes on a staff

and open their throats to trill

morning lauds ~ as the sound

of a clock tower thrums overhead

and trumpets me into a glorious dawn.

The Roseate Scarf

It’s the one you bought

from the milliner just west

of the train station even though

it was August. We had paused

at the storefront to remove sand

from my shoes, a vanilla Coke

and a knish still in hand from the guy

who sold lunch out of a shopping

bag to the strollers and fishermen

on Sheepshead Bay.  You threaded

the wool under my hair, wrapped it once

around my nape, drew me in like a cigarette

and exhaled my name upon the wind.

I came across the scarf again a week

or so before you left.  It had weathered

sixty summers and countless stares

from others who thought it odd attire

for the time of year.  And on your final

day at home I wheeled you down

the length of our sidewalk, seared

my name into your mind burnt black,

and wrapped you lovingly into its soft,

exquisite fringe.

Waltz With the Tempest

Some slammed their shutters

to keep out her fury, I all

but sent an invitation.

I welcomed her rigid ribs

pressed hard against mine,

the steady hum of roots

rocking beneath my feet.

Watched as leaves fell up

like kites toward heavy-lidded clouds

lined with soot, plump with rain.

I nodded to the knowing of

a rage that could shake the last

gasp of autumn between its teeth,

whip limbs like wet hair

across barked shoulders.

She bellowed like a baritone

down the necks of oaks,

their fingers twined and trussed

to frame the ghost-eyed moon.

—Brie Quartin

Brie has been published previously in Freshwater as both a poetry contest winner and general poet and is currently struggling to complete a collection of poems worthy of publishing as a chapbook.