Posts Tagged ‘pictures’

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.

Life stretches toward both horizons

The dog excitedly barks at children across the street

Wind stirs curtains, leaves

Spruce branches sway like green tentacles

Birds peel their old plumage and blow their flutes

The robin inflates its heart

Clouds coalesce and disperse like cottonwood seeds

Sky opens and closes its perforated maw

Hours are marked by color and the sun’s position

Rain falls

Horns blare

Sprouts greenly fork out of soil

Wind ebbs and flows

Flowers brighten

Each horizon darkens to be lit again

There goes the white candle.

Its aura blooms yellow and orange,

the sky changes, like a lover

recently scorned, tears and blood and

whispers and promises and the heat swept up

into the darkening inferno.

Here’s to you, the End-Of-Day,

the end of my clarity, the end of my certainty.

Without you we are all thrust under night’s tongue.

We all grasp for moonlight. We remain

weary of shadows.

Here’s to you, Reminder-

we must all fade, eventually.

Rise

out of a blue sea

into scarlet light,

descend the marble steps

to a pool as clear as glass.

Sweep away remaining sleep,

find the jungle of fruits-

a bright feast.

Open mouth in a wide “O”,

loose a gust,

focus on the wash of yellow

shining through.

Flutters and twips float

in- vague- into the

temporary cage.

One day, I went out,

and the World Struck my Eye-

the Hills- the Grass- pleaded-

and I could only comply

 

by venturing forth

into the Warm air-

this solace, like Eternity,

was not simple- but- Fair.

In this whiteness there is desolation.

Ferocity abounds while ice plummets

to where a birdwatcher would make his or her observation.

But now the snow plunges into summits,

hiding landscape from humans at their windows.

All one can see are tiny white comets,

and in this instant, that is all one can know.

Perhaps it is because nature

tells me no lies-

that is why my heart is sure

its beats match that of trees and sky.

The sun is shining,

white hot and blinding,

and the temperature climbs

slowly above freezing,

and warmth seeps into the earth,

into my skin,

and I feel everything move,

though nothing is moving.

I guess it’s because there is so little-

sun, sky, snow, spruce,

and me- therefore I feel

in tune, connected,

as if each of these things

has a heart

that beats in tune with mine.

I am where the fury cannot reach me.

Claws of ice, of cold glass

would cut my cheeks

when I was younger, when I was

more foolish.

Now the breath of the globe

stirs its perfect blanket, it separates

into particles that cluster into talons,

but once would melt against my raw flesh-

no harsher than a mother’s love.

 

There is beauty

in this rage.

Only where I am is where Earth

could fold a new layer of skin

over itself, and become pristine,

with no black macadam,

no brown roots,

no pink beasts

to disturb its purity.

They are all too afraid.

Where would I rather be?

There are people here

who do not know me.

I know only their blood, not

their histories.

They talk of people I know,

the gray lady who died, my cousins;

they peruse photographs,

sorting and arranging landscapes.

I find it all uninteresting.

I distance myself–

a pale carp apart from these squawking birds.

As intriguing as

blue glass glaciers in Canada

and enormous fallen trees in California are

I’d rather their mysteries be saved for me,

for when I am old enough to journey

and pull the curtain of fog away

for even a small glimpse

at the present,

but these people are stuck

in the past.