Recollected Poems by Cory Zacharia
The Poet Laureate and Teacher, Brenda Connor-Bey
The Other Woodstock
Why am I afraid to fully describe my surroundings,
worried that my words might fail, unleavened?
Would I recollect the tangly-like vines
raveled around the mugwort?
Clarions, pink as morning,
purple as night, one sparkly, speckled rose,
preening brightly.
If summer lasted long enough,
they might circle the whole house,
but instead, egoless, they mulch
and sleep away the winter,
returning with the second heat.
I had unearthed all these visitors,
preparing the ground for a vegetable crop.
After I tossed in arugula and watercress seeds,
I left for weeks and returned to find them,
Hardy, all wrapped around each other,
a fine salad nestled in my welcoming bed.
c. Cory Zacharia
Past Surroundings
Glorious late summer, sun flirts by
dappling light, a Japanese fan
that lightly conceals a lady's smile.
Bright tingly laughter, swaying lights on branches
the transparency of rice paper screens.
Glinting wind.
Deep greens with lights like through
a cellar window,
concealing, revealing layers past
evoking mossiness.
Bushes sing, trees sing,
Birds trumpet their organizing caws.
Is there fearlessness on the deathless plane?
c. Cory Zacharia
