We get a new skin
every twenty-eight days,
the old dusting to earth.

More rarely, other cells
renew, shedding memories
as gone as light from stars.

We hoard and devour
the ones that stay, as when you eat
huckleberries till they fill the rim

of taste with their delicate mouths,
the bright indigo seeds.

Or when an orchid falls

from a waist or lapel
to a wedding dance floor– the swirl
of moving legs–and softly

blooms there to a hundred
scraps–raging grail, white
and purple death, as blood

rings through the elbows, fingers,
chests, to feed that whirling,
circle of the feet.


Stillness, and Seeds

Some honey bees
being the seed of plant flesh,
seeding water.

Water seeding,
sending stillness,
everywhere. Sheer beauty,

Irish whistle. A high
passage through the sends

to come, stiller than a seed.

I want to curl into something
I have always known.

Bio: Linda Taylor teaches literature and writing at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta.  Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Georgia Review, Nimrod, Black Warrior Review, Indiana Review, and other journals.  She likes singing folk music and playing the guitar.  When she can, she visits the Oregon coast.