Posts Tagged ‘flowers’

Yellow light has become our new carpet.

Light, like grief, reveals

us. And the lilacs gather bees

as my friends gather affection.

Light is my sour token.

Wind is the other.

 

Here is this summer light, but

people would rather wait

for news of stabbings, shootings, and massacres-

though, being human, won’t admit it-

and choose shadow.

But this is ordinary.

Even ornithologists do not fully understand

the language of birds.

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I cherish this moment:

when the wind rolls in

with floral perfume,

when the grass bends-

as if in genuflection- and ripples,

when the birds warble

and their chirps burst like bubbles

and their piccolo-bones sound

their ascent,

when the children’s laughs echo

and fill emptiness where the birds and wind cannot,

when the trees seem to be carved rocks,

and their buds burst into bloom like fireworks,

when the flowers split into color and scatter

adding new shades with the buds of the trees.

This moment is

exquisitely orchestrated.

Yellow fingers sweep the clouds away,

extend to brush my skin-

I feel the gentle, warm caress.

The world illuminates:

houses, fields, trees, lakes brightened.

Snow dissipates, ice dwindles in drips,

both glint all the same.

Here is the change

as everything wakes from cold slumber

and will stir into flower and fervor.

Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

Where the bronze fire of your skin

almost seared my flesh,

there are, instead, these pale

pink petals giving me my identity-

separate from you.

Windless stillness,

silence.

Sunlight slices through

dense clumps of silver.

Light perforated

only by gray, almost transparent

shadows- long and thin

shadows of trees.

The earth is wearing out its

white play-clothes.

They have gravel stains,

dirt stains,

and the beating heart

of its grasses is turning

as it enters REM sleep.

Earth is dreaming of when

she will burst from the womb,

naked and beautiful,

and will grow its emerald hair

long.

And will decorate itself in jewels of color-

blossoms

and leaves.

Love is a many-splendored thing,

blooming slow, like a flower in Spring.

The petals yield their colors, bright

pulses flare and skins ignite.

Two red beacons then converge,

and greet each other with kind words.