Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Meadow of Mustard

A woman watches the west for words
as the wind wipes them from her mouth
and plants them with the haste of winter
into the blowing grasses of a meadow

Singing to the yellow profusion
green weeds dare to whisper about spring
(they have rooted in the pouring rain
and understand mud and time)

Meanwhile a random feather is caught in the fray
and drifting like a kite in early March slowly slides
the invisible air like a lover's silk-lined gown
down into the print left by the woman's boot
as she watches the west for words

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