Monday, May 2, 2011

Gathering pussy willows.

A strand here, a flower there
can change our intention,
create new circles of blabber
and blunder and blood, 
even if we tuck them neatly
around doilies and tea cozies
and smile through each change,
each cookie's and crumpet's
sweet bit and hungry byte.

When we water  plants
we keep around for oxygen, we end up
scrubbing the baseboards to disguise our rage
at those who failed to keep them alive.

In the great outdoors
tears and rain welcome each other and
one foot moves
after the other,  not  forward,
necessarily, for things that move sideways don't object to
tears salting lips or dripping down
sideways- longways and ever- which- way
moonlight writing
long strokes of acetate on a shimmering  lake
extending the day and hushing
pussy willows, their heads lulled gently,
shaking off wind rage
and its  passing terror of decapitation.

Nobody knows much  what tea cups remember,
but everybody knows pussy willows gather
silently  on windless, shimmering nights
tears tightly pressed  in their lips,
keeping the right tone
regardless of the light.


  1. Pussy willows....their fuzziness makes them seem more like critters than plants. Do they cry when you gather them?

  2. Your last stanza pulls together the strands of your poem hauntingly. I am convinced: everyone knows.

  3. oh rosaria, yes, it is as though in the last two stanzas the pussy willows took over, spoke through you. the cadence changes and the words seem a flood. wonderful. wonderful. and yet there is something in nature that hounds us. i think of you in your suits. were you trying to be well behaved? didn't you know that the pussy willow's language would overtake you?

    i really enjoyed this one, rosaria.