The Green Man

Our primate eye cones absorb blues, greens, reds.

Sight range less than pigeons.

My love,  your eyes taste of willow groves not mangoes.

Pondwater pools in my mouth.

The Cherokee word is i-tse-i u-s-di make green

renew oneself U-s’di Young One.

We plant seeds. Jade maize emerges.

The child in my belly dreams green.

Underfoot a zillion grass blades rise.

They feed everybody. Our hunter eyes scan.

Brown like soil our fingers rustle sedges,

waver barely visible in swampwater.

Gentle motions of khaki catfish whiskers, barbels,

smell and taste in a single gesture. Always hungry.

Don Levering

Donald Levering |Previous Lives|Red Mountain Press 2018