The 9th and 10th of August

The 9th of August

I water echinacea
and watch melons grow.
I find the scattered feathers of Turkeys in the 
morning, and the blood dripped dried below.
I watch infinity’s strata unfold as keets corralled 
amass and grow into spotted Guinea Fowl. 
I recall, remember, am reminded 
of the depth of space, the tininess of me, as I peer into
that Black, milky night sea. 
I pull a hundred weeds as suns the horizon burn
end-to-end: 
green weeds without, and gray weeds within. 
 
I clear the stepping stones of dust
the wiping nearly 
effortless.
I’m stung, bit, and scratched—
their thousand marks
won’t last.  
The song is sung, the day’s a lung
and it’s breathing, honey,
it’s nearly won.

The 10th of August

Augustly I pluck blueberries fat
from weighted and hanging branches. 
The sun sets foreheads to dotted wetness,
the skin to steady darkening: in time. 
 
Some berries aren’t quite there, though,
aren’t yet ripe for white beds of yogurt. 
You can tell by the color, for
one thing, and the ease.
 
The ease with which the 
berry releases, changes. 
The ease with which it 
accepts its unclinging. 
 
And as I stroll and
sometimes sprint through
The garden, I am all the while
waiting for the plump berries. 
 
If, say, I were to force a 
pinked and tiny one
OFF its little branch, 
who, do you suppose, would eat it?
 
You could eat it, sure. 
It wouldn’t taste very good, no. 
So we’ll wait and we’ll pick the fat, blue 
blueberries, and pop them in our mouths. 

Ian Curriden is  from Bentonville, Arkansas. He’s currently on a leave of absence and spends his days planting wildflowers, writing, and, most importantly, perfecting his chicken curry recipe. 

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