So the tree. And the wrongful
way the wind de-leaved it.
Down to bare bark and skid-wracked
branches. But I’m exaggerating of course.
This is the law of all taking. Savour the small moments—
apples with their red out, skins glossed to luster.
I found a leaf the other day,
red and tattered on the sidewalk.
The wind kept lifting its
papery body every time
I tried to catch it.
I was trying to save it.
I had my reasons. None
of which were particularly pure
a quiet so ordinary that nobody
knew the better.
sky-glad birds and trees big again,
their dark loud arms over the earth.
In May, the flowers—beauty
rigged to stark-green stems.
The anthem of lone things.
Irises—petals crimped, yet a papery
lightness somehow extolling.
Grow tall. Bloom/Die. Do not leave us.
Shake of deep purple against
the cold steel of fences.
So this spring eye can reap
Moon sentry in Elizabethan glower.
Orchid knife of wind coring night. Flicks
stars out, one by one. Tiny sparks that ignite
at the touch of dark. Frogs blowing their croaks.
The living chattel the earth.
flowers offing their colours.
Theirs is no easy story. Rape of
pollen. Solipsism of bees. Propagation
unchecked. They’ll see us through another
season. There’s a field, close by, that doesn’t
let go of its flowers.