Friday, February 28, 2014
Hear the method of repair
the air is filled with a low hum
across the nape of naked trees
I feel like I still hold the leaves
the weight like feathers now
The fabric will not remain so quiet
it will touch me until I'm clogged
and a season will grow within the ditch
soon dimpling the overflow off curb
awash within the noisy gutters rise
until I can at last lay down a word of me
that flows down the river
to the sea
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Circles in the Garden
Circles move in the garden.
The flower folds into death,
seeks the ground and covers the warm earth,
molding with the leaves
swept from the tree onto the path,
making room for the new bud.
The strawberry's sunny face turns red,
the sweet pea is perfumed
the honey suckle sweetened
as the circle moves
and the end becomes
nipped in the bud
coloring the room,
singing a heart,
joying the dancing boy and girl,
catching the girl's hair in the color
that sparkles her eyes.
As the sun moves into another rising,
flowers open to beauty
and close to death.
In this fantasy of time
a young girl strips the petals
from the daisy of her youth
and one by one drops her innocence
and opens into a woman.
A rose blooms
into the fragrance of a boys' desire,
and every breath
quickens him to manhood.
The flower lays tangled
in the memory of years,
pressed against the pages
of time, it waits
and grows a memory.
If a flower is plucked
by some raging storm,
its seeds will set another bloom,
its petals will enrich the ground,
and nothing will be lost or forgotten.
In spring new flowers will color the hills,
and from a mound
of plain, brown earth
life will return.