I tell myself I’m not in love
since the butterflies died,
and—in the distant dark—
a lightning bug signals
her way as she climbs up
through the hot air
this island of white
floats unreal
water water everywhere—cold, gray waves
lapping in on a small island of rock,
and a couple of sea hens moan—
my little perch expands—
o, a crystal pink rock formation
like the frozen nerve of a tooth
snot-colored dreams of the sea:
a literary island’s love lessons
between winter and summer,
between white venetian blinds,
white snow sleeting between—
the wind, the sad song of a mouth organ
stuck in the teeth of some cloud,
a lonesome seer—smart as my nephew
who predicted a lesser storm
the leaves are so heavy and green
that when the wind shakes them,
I doubt my mind’s apprehension of the similar
heavy vibrations I feel you send
all the canopies and umbrellas
are furled and colored like cake;
how then can green, dark green
thrive except—I answer myself—
in this environment of hot energy
but the early zinnias don’t fade or furl
with nightfall, yellow and orange as bright candy;
they are ready for darkness– me too
and the love mad bugs
ascend, descend and swirl like snow drops
Martha Strom was educated at Boston University and Princeton. Her poems have appeared in New Letters, Passager, Common Ground Review, and other journals.