Friday, August 21, 2009

Poetry Year August 21st

The idylls in the field of flowers, dotted suns
that spread across a sallow green.
I pick one that has turned to tufted seed,
and blow the bright parachutes towards
eager anticipated germination.

My thoughts are with them scattered,
to land in far corners.
Perhaps to grow,
perhaps to sleep
perhaps as an offering by some fey creature,
to a monarch in inhuman keep.

Perhaps to flower,
perhaps to rot,
perhaps pressed in book,
as forget me not.

The strands of our fingers entwined,
about the fragile stem of nature's vase,
support a shivering of a wind more sublime
than the the one enfolding seed in its embrace.

The contact shivers,
and my bones are rattled
by the front of coming storm.
That in my eye I see beyond this day
beyond this field
beyond this moment,
when to your seed I yield.

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