A WALK THROUGH THE WONDERLANDS by Michael Brownstein
from THE TATTOO GARDEN OF CAPELLA
We hike the northern most trail near the glacial wall
of ivory and brass, rust and pyrite, a gold vein
through a spit of silver ore, the path passing under
roped purple vines, thick and settled, climbing wind stalk,
the red ladened clay of storm sculpted paper birch.
Everywhere a flutter of redwings and large velvet ants,
yellow and crimson, a great green eye on each wing.
The way goes into a small dip past a chocolate swamp,
rising to a view of cotton candy arrowroot, mocha creamed asters.
When we make the eighth turn, we enter a field of tall bone grass,
iron shaped bent by sun and rain, a crisscrossing of shade and smell.
The noises around us never deafening, but always present,
chirps, geeks, glops, slocks, chings, slobbers, blimps,
static and song—so many songs—and somehow so may harmonies.
When we reach the ridge, we can see the Cloud Maker releasing clouds,
the Head Tattoo Artist inking the bark on new born trees,
the Master Gardeners busy—and there is a sigh, a soft burp,
and we begin the short walk home to where the southern trail begins.
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