Landscape Poem: Middle Frame

A path of early spring grass,

bright green growth patched with brown.

Eyes follow it straight through the sunlight,

up an incline into the shade,

where it twists away out of sight.

The wide green belt is littered with pinecones,

which smell like fresh-cut wood when you get close enough,

while a few thick branches slink across like snakes.

The trail is bordered by a wild brush,

Some strong healthy tree trunks reach up,

surrounded by pricker-bushes,

a wild nest of sticks,and a kind of bush

sporting the tiniest beginnings

of new-spring buds.

Valve Oil

 “A form of currency for brass players.”

I wouldn’t consider it a currency, as

there is no definite tradable value to

this smelly liquid that causes every-

thing you touch to feel slimy and

greasyfor days.

It’s like a collection of trading cards.

You expect to only need one bottle

as a time, but through impulse buys

and recommendations and borrowing,

suddenly you own five or six different

little bottles.

But the true value of your oils is not how

many you have, but how many you can

give away.  There’s a status that comes

along with being the person with the

goods, like being the only person who

remembered to bring paper plates to the

picnic.  Everyone count on you to swoop

in with that magical little bottle and rescue

us from certain disaster.