Ambrosia
Such sweetness swoons these afternoons
as rain-beads on the hedge and grass
shrink to a winking glitter, pass,
and blossoms dry out nectared looms
to weave a glamor through washed air,
while clouds are white-felt, crazed in haze.
Let fierce the high sun's furnace blaze,
breeze sigh deep with ambrosia.
Each waft of synesthesia
will cast you into reverie:
bird, sing a finer aria;
a jet seems growl-tickled to glee;
whatever once you thought you were
drops clean away beneath this tree.
.............................
Italian sonnet variation - but lines of eight syllables.
........................
The Flier
Maybe she blundered into thorn yet wet
in a shadowed hedge crevice,
shook down a crowd of bead residuals,
dulled the magic of her resonance,
for she fell, an inanimate clot
like some dead moss - What's that?
plopped down from hedge to garden chair,
slid-tumbled off to its foot on concrete.
Bumble bee! Huge one! Mayday!
Wildly pumped her abdomen -
angry I thought,
as she were stinging a stone;
but no -
drying out her fluff, pumped and shook
drew legs over laughably tiny wings
again and again, and over the huge ball
of her furred out body bulk.
Chocks away!
Ventured a flight. Buzz not yet loud enough.
Concrete loomed up at her hard.
Plan B.
Drag deadweight up dead grass stalk,
hidden among the lush and useless bendies.
Oh. Laboring into air, she drifts off, losing height
over my gravel, turns by the shed,
good,
to the least of a lazy breeze advantage. Mm!
Buzz catches - takes hold.
Climb air stairways!
Ah,
runaway-escalators
fair zip up, Yay! -
self-catapulted
over the tall hedge, homeward.
