Threshold: Maple Street, February
This is a threshold of liminal space, however rare,
what’s shared in ending, in beginning, a warm
winter day at the edge of the gallery of nature.
Bare legs, bare head, on a blue mountain bike
over black asphalt, I am riding to visit a brother,
my brief exhibition in the curated space.
Among Maple Street’s dense pines, snowbanks
withdraw under late sun, brown and white piles
now reflective pools, wells to receive souls ready.
My rear tire, a wet quill, dips into their inks,
signs my spine. How strange, a warm day in dead
February, apparitions of snow melted to drops
on tree branches shine like funereal pearls. Small
rodents rise, stand up from their burrows to life
again. In their second coming, in the widening road
they die by dawn. Currents of evening air alternate,
tell my body air is water—one of nature’s illusions.
I ride through air the sunlight spoiled, stagnant
bathtub water my bare legs wade in their pedaling
steady, and air the snow kept long frozen—each pool
another glass of water thrown into my face to thrill
my skin and fill my lungs. The sun sets further.
Truth or illusion—air holds water, air is water,
condenses, rises above snow piles or falls visible
from air now. How far until the river where a soul
floats free? Air and water rise—imagine the place
where they meet, shadow in the corner of the eye.
From Boughs
Cherry blossoms float from their perilous
heights. I bow toward them, a flower girl
back-to-bride to reap petals from the aisle,
a maid drawing a pail from a well. One petal
by petal by pale petal by blushing pale petal—
five to each flower, one for every sense
by which I encounter you, five to the hand
of Fatima, Miriam, five for the Hierophant
on his throne between pillars of liberty
and law, the keys to heaven cherry blossoms
at his feet. Here is the rebellion he assays—
I am Miriam, prophetess of water. I receive
Moses from the Nile, I dance across the dry
Red Sea. My love, I pour out kindness, water
from a cup. Saturate yourself. I am Miriam, leper.
My skin flakes, falls to the ground as though I,
another cherry tree, release blossoms with petals
five, each a face of Shiva, a wound of Christ,
a consonant harmony. My love, I am a girl
in a blue dress, balancing in a wooden bucket
the weight of water from our well, my love.
Ruth Towne is the author of Resurrection of the Mannequins, a poetry collection forthcoming from Kelsay Books (2025). Her poetry has recently been published by Holy Gossip, The Lily Poetry Review, Decadent Review, New Feathers Anthology, Coffin Bell Journal, Arboreal Literary Magazine, and Anodyne Magazine. She was a co-editor of poetry for the Stonecoast Literary Review, Summer 2024.
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