These idylic days drift towards April's end
when all is soft in new leaf or in petal
(treed or tumbled)
taller grow the dandelions to top shooting grasses
and May's well budded for the next white wave.
To breathe in blossom is to taste oblivion.
Elysium shadows tangled in sun-filled blades,
dark leaps clean to light,
that cuts now sharp
like new made universes whose purposes inhere
inseparable from their swirling being and doing
(or swimmers stitching domains of air and water
whose beating way is crowned with splashes so
we doze and surreal under sun steer slow
and lean upon an oar)
and jerk awake and smile
at blackbird phrases corners might elucidate
when bee-sung attentions seem to be soft speech
philosophizing from further gardens underneath
the babble of children's voices
sprung from the freshet
of their play in the minder/ creche, across the street
rivulet and carry a song
to thread
through raspberry leaves.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PuisiThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
