April, then.
Is this spring?
It must be -
the willows are budding,
and the itch in my feet
starting up again.
Everywhere,
life beats itself
into being. Birds riot
outside my window,
and manzanitas
hang their bells
in the wind.
Still:
it snowed yesterday.
(Or was that
the day before?)
Time knows nothing
of our dates
and measures.
The cherry trees,
half-blooming,
lost half
their fruit to come.
Some things
are taken from us
before we even know
of them;
Death walks here,
too. Nothing grows
but through the eyesockets
of the past. And everything
is growing.
(It's National Poetry Month, after all.)
Is this spring?
It must be -
the willows are budding,
and the itch in my feet
starting up again.
Everywhere,
life beats itself
into being. Birds riot
outside my window,
and manzanitas
hang their bells
in the wind.
Still:
it snowed yesterday.
(Or was that
the day before?)
Time knows nothing
of our dates
and measures.
The cherry trees,
half-blooming,
lost half
their fruit to come.
Some things
are taken from us
before we even know
of them;
Death walks here,
too. Nothing grows
but through the eyesockets
of the past. And everything
is growing.
(It's National Poetry Month, after all.)
What makes a set of words a poem? Is it the spare construction, the evocative phrase, a glimpse rather than the full view? Is it the form, or the act of naming it 'poem'?
I imagine a zen window: small, precisely placed, framing an element in the landscape as a piece of art.
Most days, you pack your words into paragraphs, rather than floating a few onto each line -- and I read poetry in what you (so beautifully) write.
Posted by
Anonymous |
8/4/06 15:04
When we spoke,
I forgot to mention
that years later,
I am still in love with you.
Posted by
Anonymous |
9/4/06 01:56