Friday, May 19, 2017

Milkweed




Milkweed



Open the gates
of your lips and let me
pass, even as
you ripen mine
to that soft splitting
by your tongue.

Trade me your hands
for this furious waste,
breathe thaw on
the frozen plates
that slide and grind
our ties unbound.

Cast each threadbare
husk of garment down
upon the changing earth
so we may turn, turn
from dead to worse
to life again,

popping like milkweed
on the wind, red blood
to white spires, tassels and
catkins of old desires;
asterisks
and afterthoughts,

argonauts, two
fools of wide waters
floating the blue storm
through clouded pillars
over the shoals
of a thousand suns.

~May 2017














 Images: Milkweed, author unknown, fair use via internet
The Argo, by Lorenzo Costa: 1st third of 16th century via wikimedia commons





4 comments:

  1. I would sing this to the wind and rain. Oh, So Delicious!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Your middle stanza has read itself all the way to my bones. I love the power conveyed by the imagery, the promise of rebirth (even if there is pain and horror in between... then again, when have the world ever changed without screaming?).

    ReplyDelete
  3. Milkweed. What a common plant, and yet uncommon to think of using it as a literary device. So much right, and rot, and round we go in this one.

    ReplyDelete

'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg