lovingly at a fountain, at a mountain
more white than the rush that pleases God,
nothing like fleas. Trembling up on the
gentlest slope, sprinkled with poppies
and all that gear up seeds, dug in like
corporals, frame up that fir in its collapsing.
No red bark crumbling in the end, nothing
jolting enough dew off the vine to pulse
a test, you are that novice arrived at the
temple steps, knowing nothing, no more
than a finger’s stretch for the Divine.
R.W. Jagodnik has placed poems in Fireweed, Motes, The Cortland Review, M Review, The Poeming Pigeon, and Borrowed Solace. Currently, R.W. works as a residential caregiver for developmentally-disabled people.