Tuesday, Late Summer, in the Blue Ridge

As if five hundred forty-six shades
of green existed all at once, on each
Appalachian hillside.

As if the red oak said, I’ll be viridian,
and you be mint, and shagbark hickory
answered no, I prefer dark moss, let
striped maple be mint.

As if the loamy soil conspired with
these trees, arriving at how to pleasure
all five human senses on this twenty-first
day of August.

As if ferns and streams had matched
loins, then birthed an incantation so complex
it had neither odor nor form, existing
only as a slight tickle across your brow,

As if an aphid crawled purposefully through
the blond forest of your left forearm.

As if each and every touch could be not
an annoyance, but a blessing.

Gary D. Grossman
Sheila-Na-Gig
December 2024