Daisy
Awakenings these latter days
seem sullen, straining for
a gone green music, unprepared as
the day that lumbers up,
tripping its way through a
zodiac of sticks like a clumsy thief,
too old to run but
still wanting to steal.
Hours revolve in a maelstrom
of ferns, once fresh for morning
now a parable of crackling
brown loss drying back to some point
of unknown where its powdering tides will
drain down earth's fissures,
intimately gone; I'm just another
torn membrane losing the lie,
spinning down the dark drown.
Still I pull all the architecture
of my ruins--the folly, the narrows,
the knot garden, the rockery of
a thousand dead alpine desires--
forward to find
a station of cleared space
to stand in place for life's moment,
asking eyes shut, seed face
blind and upturned,
sunflowered on my stem
for one last hot meal
of yellow light;
being a daisy,
being a dream.
April 2020
posted for Kerry's
Note: April as always is poetry month, and though I will be writing as much as I can, it most likely will not be a poem a day. Nonetheless, I will offer to those who are the Friday 55 each week for their use if so desired. So see you here on Friday if you need a meme.
Images: The Old Tower In The Fields, 1884 by Vincent Van Gogh, Public Domain
Still Life With Four Sunflowers, 1887, by Vincent Van Gogh, Public Domain
