I have been crushed
to pieces
and put back together
piece by piece.
The glue is not dry yet.
Fragile.
Handle with care.
My reconstruction has new form:
Spaces
that before did not exist.
The wind blows through them,
a disconcerting chill.
But I will grow accustomed to it.
My spaces are triangular now.
Strong.
Melancholy
The earth has been dormant and grey
and after
not too long
it will heat up and dry out
and the green will thirst for life
and refreshment.
But just now
the bare branches
are suddenly bursting
with bright green newness.
Barely surviving mysteries
in planters
are tall and colorful and fragrant.
My favorite blossoms never last long.
Red tulips open and open and open
til petals fall
--like a brief gasoline blaze.
Sunlight-yellow forsythia
shone all over like Moses' burning bush
yesterday
but are now just leaves.
Hyacinth that defy frost and snow
with their aroma,
the perfume of restoration and beginnings
droop after rain, withering.
Why can it not last?
the time before biting insects
and smothering humidity
and blistering noontides?
The fresh green
gives way to parched--
to thorns
and crisp, brown
formerly living leaves.
And why must I know this?
There was a time
that the red tulips bloomed
and it was enough.
Enough to be there.
The fading would come
but it was not present.
It did not invade the light,
Spring's bright pallet,
With Melancholy.
No comments:
Post a Comment