By Jade Bradbury
How like you to speak to me of trees,
piercing the feathered air as if
poetry could teach the heart of loss,
convey the constancy of change.
So much flux breeds excess caution—
I’m still not at home with it—how could
I be, who only wanted to love you,
as if it came to me naturally.
The mind that ever fears the worst
speaks volumes about its motives,
always asking what if and why not,
mainly intending, “Then show me!”
And that you do, more often than not
stranding me here on rock in sight
Of sky: What now, Love, is this all?
Will you love me eternally?
* * *
Jade Bradbury is a published author of essays, editorial profiles, journal articles, short fiction, and in recent years, poetry. A 2005-06 artist residency in New Zealand reignited a poetic propensity from earlier times in her writing life. Upon her return she found herself firmly committed to poetry writing and advocacy, locally, regionally, and beyond. She lives with her husband and countless books in Los Gatos, CA.