The Orchestra of Things Seen
what if weeping willows were songs
accosted by the rivalry of shaped emotions heard
I watched melodies resonate in the exhausted posture
of the trees
yet the coda was a recurrent paralysis
denoted in the trunk, the roots, the inner core
I'd sing will them in the rain
with ragweed burning in my mouth
reaching for the magnanimity of the willows
which cry and brag at the same time
in the same park
yet in different daze
Grandma's Window
craven window inside out
irksome crusts stained orange
and brown along the seal
transparent hardly
yet a work of mystery
I see nothing but blackness
though I still ponder
Webster's dictionary
for it associates darkness
with blackness
and as long as I've been staring
at Grandma's window
all I can say with confidence is
that it's old dirty and black
though darkness
never tells me to include
its application or connotation
I wonder
why another man
or another pair of eyes
would disagree |
