after Landscape on the Coast; near Menon, Renoir
So was the word we used to describe it:
trees hell-bent with bark scraped as if raked
over hot coals as if multiple snakes
had shed multiple skins and left them
hanging on poles to be shredded by wind.
Not a spring breeze to tease the beach heather,
lavender, and asters into blooming.
Halfway through summer, the blasts tend to last
that much longer and blow that much stronger.
We walked softly through sand burs and spike grass,
baked to a golden crisp, while the tree leaves
clung to their green dreams of chlorophyll and
the cool chill of fog and mist that lifted
our spirits and eyes skyward to the sea.
Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places, but now calls North Carolina home. An AWP Intro Award winner and Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not writing or reading or editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag.
