Crabwise I'd sidle sideways in slow time
and change my stars without a second life;
diagonals could carry me from strife
and only I would know their inner rhyme.
I'd find a strange shirt hung in my wardrobe,
timewind seeded plants where earth was bare.
I'd find a trinket I never placed there
on the bureau. So each spin of the globe
till with this familiar I'd be estranged
and new wine in old bottles settled down.
But let not my children be rearranged.
For their sake I must bid my time-plans clown.
I never held much store with splitting streams -
too many separations of our dreams.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
