Dance of the Blesséd Spoor

They float up out of the black sticks—
The sillages of soliflores—
Ignorance or fancy, no one

Ever could decide. Today is
That which worried you yesterday,
And it’s not the future shocks you

But the past as it arrives, passed
Before your eyes, with the wet scent
Of a targeted nostalgia

For sweet flowers trailing behind.
Have you created this or just
Lost and found it, repeatedly,

Monotonously, wild roses
And heaped-up mountain imagery
As central tendencies, the mean

Feats of imagination left
Without enough of memory
To make the false real, seal the deal?

Sit out on your porch as the sun,
Unseasonably strong, heats you,
Warms the dank grass the breezes stir,

And sniff that tomorrow coming,
The one you can’t paint, no one could,
Ignorant, fanciful, and rank.