Chase Twichell Poems
|1.||To The Reader: Polaroids||1/20/2003|
|6.||The Blade of Nostalgia||7/28/2015|
|7.||The Immortal Pilots||7/16/2014|
|13.||To The Reader: If You Asked Me||1/20/2003|
|18.||A Negative Of Snow||7/16/2014|
|20.||Stirred Up By Rain||1/20/2003|
|21.||Hunger For Something||7/16/2014|
|22.||To The Reader: Twilight||1/20/2003|
Don't tell me we're not like plants,
sending out a shoot when we need to,
or spikes, poisonous oils, or flowers.
Come to me but only when I say,
that's how plants announce
the rules of propagation.
Even children know this. You can
see them imitating all the moves
with their bright plastic toys.
So that, years later, at the moment
the girl's body finally says yes
to the end of childhood,
a green pail with an orange shovel
will appear in her mind like a tropical
blossom she has never seen before.
Stirred Up By Rain
I fired up the mower
although it was about to rain--
a chill late September afternoon,
wild flowers re-seeding themselves
in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix.
To be attached to things is illusion,
yet I'm attached to things.
Cold, clouds, wind, color--the sky