By Philip Jason
about the stillness that holds a forest together while it burns,
they refer to it as love
and are reclined toward grace, or what we would call the rain, which
is watching the forest become smoke
and onward, the grimy syllables of their
words rumble outward, they say, Let
the beauty of this transaction
weep its way through you
like a shaken souvenir. As it tumbles,
your mistakes will fall into the eye of a flower
and bloom into the soft sound of the petals
stretching
listen;
listen you waste of dew: a soft sound comes out of hiding
to remind you of newness, and there are rumors
of snowfall in the belly of your heart. These
are the things that will diaper you
to happiness; these are the things
that will meadow as you graze.
Philip Jason’s stories can be found in Prairie Schooner, The Pinch, Mid-American Review, Ninth Letter, and J Journal; his poetry in Spillway, Lake Effect, Hawaii Pacific Review, Pallette and Indianapolis Review. He is the author of the novel ‘Window Eyes’ (Unsolicited Press, 2023). His first collection of poetry, ‘I Don’t Understand Why It’s Crazy to Hear the Beautiful Songs of Nonexistent Birds,’ is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. For more, please visit philipjason.com
