The Bell after “Free Union” by Andre Breton Trisha Kc Buel Wheeldon
My Washington whose rain is of the judges Whose rain is soft sprinkled diamonds of a broken mirror Whose sky is an ancient slate wiped clean Whose sky is blended eye shadow and an upside down umbrella Whose horizon is Pego, chandeliers in a shop window And knowing you’re still yourself Whose mountains are crescendos in the “Waltz of the Flowers” Whose beaches are rising to check the time and ebbing back to sleep With waves that are each finger of holding hands With waves that are decades of fashion My Washington whose woods are the hand-tied quilt I never had The hand-tied quilt I never made Whose trees are wizards’ wands Whose trees are waiting watchmen Armed with arrows pointing the way Whose trees are stakes for every tent in the Emerald City My Washington whose roads are the spinning of a cobweb Whose road is a blue vein pumping tractors Whose three rivers are slideshows A photo of an old romance, of birthday cakes, first day of school Whose lake is a bowl of fireworks My Washington with a hill ding-donging on the hour With a hill that is forever pregnant with vegetable seeds With a hill that is a turtle shell and a wrinkle in velvet With a hill of a spoonful of sugar My Washington with a hill swelling with courage for the first kiss My Washington, with a hill that is home.
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