February And Beyond

The Two Flowers

Under The Boughs

Of the first flowers here
couched by the freshet of the year
forget-me-not lies low and blue
I stoop to island pools
of florets tender
in surrender
and daydream of you,
though futile and foolish,
It is true. I do.
'Forget-me-not, bliss.'

'And yet that will not do,'
the dandelions resonate:
'Her world must crack in two,
as she contemplates you,
to reset your fate.

Sky sealed with memory
and in bottom drawer, folded away,
pix, texts, emails, fade to grey,
to shrink you to a dream
in a mini-mausoleum,
far from this orchard of recall,
which shakes the tree of rain-tears,
stirs up a yearning from emptiness
in the caverns of belonging,
a longing and attraction.

No. She will not unloose
iron chains of years,
nor turn her busy fingers
from ancient habits
of self -satisfaction.'

A bird calls me away;
time and the dog distray.
Leave the flowers now;
pull up your cowl.

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