I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
and burdensome?
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?
To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –
that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.
And here I have begun.
I find it in the feet of bell tones,
after sorbing the sound as struck and deep.
I see the auric crest at the tip of leaves
in the moments of late summer’s wanton eve.
I feel the arc that bows in honor
of poetry heard, and hopes that won’t cease.
I hear it in the intake of calm
from the instant of lighting, the droning that sleeps.
It caresses the silence just beyond music,
and lingers on fingertips framed in release.
It walks in the tawny remembrance of noon-tide,
and ploys in the finish of our masterpiece.
And sounding the whisper of midnight and morning,
the tolling of hours when time passes, sweeps
away the cache of conflagration
leaving morsels we should keep.
I find it in the feet of bell tones,
with sounds that amble soft and sweet.
Sometimes,
I want to fall apart-
spontaneously disassemble
and disconnect into hundreds
of small fragments,
interlocking of course-
like puzzles of autumn afternoons
just out of the box.
The ones with rushing streams
that leave the edge of the frame
to some unseen bend.
The leaves are gilded and bronzed,
ready to separate
upon the first overnight rain.
And water droplets cling
to porch eaves, just at the crest
when tension breaks.
And we embrace
with a lingered kiss,
and we are knitted to keep from
unraveling.
Can you walk among the grasses, ornamental in your step?
Unseen, wavering in the flutter, moving with the ebb.
Do you glide among the flushing, hues of sanguine be your veil?
Camouflaging simper, as you sweep through with avail.
Will you pace ahead in rhythm, accents driving your advance?
Pausing, as an instrument, to cause my soul to dance.
Opening a gateway, hearing sounds of air
watching, waiting for a glimpse of allure unaware.
Can you wander through my field of view, as I write a verse?
Something about movement, and a guise you can’t rehearse.
Taps and Ratamacues 