Sometimes we've sated our great thirst
for beginnings and endings, want time's
drift of continuences, dandelion seed.
Stand rapt by laggard apple tree,
always last to blossom but the sweetest;
breathe in a whole lungful and recall
grandmother cutting roses for mother,
peace offerings given solemnly to deliver.
Anesthetic sun drowses;
quarry-man sparrow chips at thought.
It's bank holiday. The neighborhood jibs
with children's voices; traffic's light
as ripples shelve on ebb-tide shores.
Afternoon crescent moon, fainter in blue
than a cloud-puff. Spider lines catch glinter.
This the edge of summer's brief eternity.
The walls of then are thinner than pages. Oh,
is it only the looking, the reading we can alter,
events being bound? For what language,
beyond a blink-back of penitence / gratitude,
finds in stiff boards chrysalis stories?
................
The pic is a circular logogram of 12 sectors from the sci-fi film Arrival - part of the alien 'Universal Language' which, rather wishfully, 'opens the doors of time'.
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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.
