Almost out of focus, the tall pine trees are dark against the curious cobalt of a night descending, not yet arrived. The mind is silent, filled only with the sound of running water and the subliminal song of Keats’ nightingale, is soothed by the knowledge that beyond it all the watching tree is budding, birthing tiny, tight florets, white like stars in cold winters, just as defiant and alive.
With use, love becomes polished like the indigo ocean merging with milky horizons whose perpetual harmony swells and sinks like grains of wood dust in wet grass.
I spent summer like a lily in water: in tranquil pursuit of passing gusts of life, lemon ice cream cones, skies blanching, then darkening, blushing and blossoming meditatively like lazy fingers sleepwalking on electric skin. Sometimes, the sound of pebbles skipped across the shiny surface; Sometimes, the distant rumble of a storm that never came – Such small upsets when the world is in sun-soaked reverie, but overly prone to forget that all summers must end.
Look at how wild I grow! Look how splendid my bloom! Watch me, the one amongst many, ruffle my petals, see me direct growth towards teasing lights, towards the place I believe to be warm. Ah, how this sun loves, and that sun adores me! How vibrant the morning perceives me, but how wilted the night when I, moonlit, grow paler, thin-skinned, translucent, and dream of meandering brooks while cold-burning stars warn: “What is a river without a bed to confine it, how does a stream know where to flow without the embrace of the land?” There is no garden without fence: only transitory glory, only ivory nightbloom defencelessly shimmering against the black of an indifferent sky.
The first my thought, the other my desire: Two sprightly nymphs that follow you around, Their whole intent to keep your heart afire So that this love can thrive on solid ground. You leave too early at the light of day With night’s remembrance still on supple skin Though time apart can never lead astray That which is one, such parting is a sin. Until you can return to waiting arms And reap those longing kisses, bitter sweet From rosy lips that promise other charms Time will limp by on heavy, dragging feet. This much is certain, this we know is true: You’re home with me and I belong to you.
Maybe I like the dark because all my mirrors are fractured: Look at me, this is my house my car my blouse this my art, my back, my lungs, my breasts this is my heart this is my chest heaving as I spell words, these are my eyes seeking failed illuminati in the desert sands setting like suns over flowers, forever asleep.
I press the past like poppies between the pages of old books. I should feed crumbs of memory to lively ducks in busy ponds, but the heart is a prisoner: that’s why she lives in a cage of bones.
Stagnant between etiquette and song only aphorism sprouts and I cannot be artist, only queen in the machinery of night.
First, only the gold: only fluid, damp warmth, only calm filling the personal prism. Time here is oceanic, embryonic, it passes slow, slow, slow like honey, like liquid hematite. It is Nature’s Law that the peaceful humdrum must end. Wings must be spread, the sweet nectar imbibed, gobbled, consumed. She is bred and fed, imbued with purpose, exiled to the tall pine tree woods. Melody-born, she touches the precious, watches it falter to dust. Once crowned, she settles. A home like a factory, efficient but cold, an empty hive filled with life. She still dreams: abstract moon-cratered dreams heavy with longing for something that never was. Ah, to plunge only once into the opening trumpet of obscenely perfumed hyacinth blossoms, to emerge thick, yellow-dusted, pollen-laden not crimson like mourning violins playing the tune of Fate. Now, freedom is distant. Now, only a daughter, yet adream in the sugary yolk, to be nurtured and ushered so the wheel can turn once again, once again.
You, sunny hummingbird, you with the star-forged voice, the gilded wings you unhide beauty beyond your pretty face: little pea-coquette nightingale, you paint the world in music while the wind forgets he planned to exhale your name.