Deep in Gossamer Gulch

where gourds are spider-kissed . . .

Margie Willis


Image by James Wheeler from Pixabay

Burrowing toes shrouded by simmering sands
switchbacks still beckon to doddering marrow
candles flicker in gourds like flirting feral cats
while a fond breeze fondles the mossy tendrils.

Once upon a gossamer gulch inlaid with mettle
deeply steeped in the fake fray of pithy history
five bespectacled munchkins defy a scarecrow
by mowing every kernel decorating some field.

Further on, a rusty cauldron burbling vile fumes
watched by who-knows-which gastronomic witch
spits out a well-braised batch of gravy gnomes
skittering into deep woods with parboiled pixies.

In time, trees begin to weep great gooey blobs
of caustic pine stench among scattered bear scat
punching up this gulch fricassee with a nasal zinger:
why not blow up olfactory with a ying-yang factor?

Meanwhile, a ragtag team of rock-n-roll raccoons
convenes under my cabin-on-stilts over the ravine
splish-splash, these wild coons take a bawdy bath
in a babbling brook of honeyed latrine spillage.

Two hairy spiders start bumping legs beside her
depositing a dollop of that pungent gulch vibe
leaning back, yanking forgotten toes from sand
veil draws back from some landslide of dreams.

Aha! She should’ve recognized it’s all a dream!
Dog snores remind: time to go dog-doddering
three primeval crones on a pre-dawn bender
warm face-bumping through briny mist pops.

Image by Elena Rogulina from Pixabay . . . caption by Margie Willis