It Comes To Me Loosely Woven, by Beebe Barksdale-Bruner

It’s still Poetry Month and I’m still making my way through a few collections that have accumulated on my shelves lately.

It Comes To Me Loosely Woven, by my friend Beebe Barksdale-Bruner, is available from Press 53. Beebe writes frequently about art (she’s also a painter) and nature, about memories and frailties. The title poem, one of my favorites in this collection. speaks to me of inspiration: “It comes to me loosely woven/ before my eyes open.” Included in the collection are seven Fibonacci Poems (a form I’ve played with a little myself: six (or more?) lines in a Fibonacci sequence of syllables—1,1,2,3,5,8 . . .). Here’s one of Beebe’s:

I
sense
a front:
fresh cut grass,
a cold cracked melon,
strengthening wet winds, suddenly
a knife splitting the ink of darkening thunderheads.