Wednesday, October 22, 2014

No Telling

A squeak from the garden, somber,
Pleased. Could be a close relative
Or distal. The heat on the stones

In August turned the green long-ago
Leaves of the fruit and cotton trees
Gold before their time

And will do so long after mine,
Year on year. Like the present,
There is no time before or after

Noon lays her heavy woolen curves,
Sheathed in tightly woven gold
But brittle descriptions, blankets

Faced with the memories I have left
Spread out to break as they dry.
Language aches without her rhymes.

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