Susan Buchanan

A BRIGHT GREEN PATH

My lungs can't fill today
no cleansing deep breath to push the world aside.
My chest heaves in vain.
Infection settles deep.
I can hear air rattle
but it's not enough.
I'm bone and muscle weary
an ancient hide stretched tight over hollow bone.
The air rattles through my limbs, hisses down the chalky corridors
a sluggish river of fluid pushes through my veins.
I long for fresh green spring
for that full breath that heals
sets the world straight
aligns my compass.
The tree peepers reassure
and the tractors on the land. These small things carve a bright green path for me.
Robin song flits across a rainy afternoon.
The month so green it's heartbreaking.
Tomorrow I'll have that breath I seek.
Tomorrow my lungs will rise without a quiver.
I'll breath strong and green again.

Susan Buchanan is fifty-year old writer who states, "I am a quadriplegic and I know this impacts my writing— I have a very close, almost physical connection to the landscape. I think this is because the physical world is so limited for me." In 2011 she won first place for short story and second place for poetry at the Island Literary Awards. Most recently, she was a finalist in the poetry division of the Atlantic Writing Competition.