In a Green Wood

by Alan Gillis

Under cover
of the sycamore
wood anemone blooms.

The sycamore’s
seeds, wee samaras,
twizzletwirl through the air.

You trace the wheel
whirl of those nutsy
helicopters, their volute

fall from cotton
dabbed skies to crash
into yellow violet and vetch.

I remember
you were laughing at
a chaffinch, or some bird

on our tartan
blanket, all hoppity
risking its neck for crumbs.

We were naming
clouds, imagining
them boats on the ocean

before the bomb
of time disfigured
us beyond almost all

recognition.
I remember you
cradling some creeping thing,

the sycamore’s
shade on your skin
like greenveined white butterflies.

Even now, picking
among the crumbs
left to us I would say,

though we’ll soon
be under soil, let no
one else feel the under

foot dew for you;
even now, I would say
a green world moves through

us in slow motion
among yellow violet,
vetch, wood anemone

under the ocean
under the eaves under
the chameleonic sycamore trees.