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.
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.
Pussy willows....their fuzziness makes them seem more like critters than plants. Do they cry when you gather them?
ReplyDeleteYour last stanza pulls together the strands of your poem hauntingly. I am convinced: everyone knows.
ReplyDeleteoh 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?
ReplyDeletei really enjoyed this one, rosaria.
xo
erin