there has been a cardinal chanting in the hackberry tree for forty-seven hours
and i wish to be nothing more
choose my branch
face the sun and sing
songs of warm wind & nests
of finding
of rest
all feathered porous red
summoning the sky
to be cardinal chanting . . .
Of tempest & tumult
of sweeping hills to fields in furious flower
becoming Boann in morning's glow of sun to river reflecting
face fair with emeralds gleaming
from Boyne to Platte--and back!
what power lies here? what child to bear? what challenge?
Oh lies & fear none must taste
but strength in deception's turn
as one is fallow the other ripe as a peach
as alive as this speckled salmon dancing
ah! to command the sun to stand still
summer & youth take root as from slumber one returns
in solstice springs love & poetry plenty
wisdom's wonder there in storms firing
rivers thunder away from winter's chill away from iron rules
away from form & fools
to
the sea and the swallowed depths of aqua longing
of tempest & tumult I will weave of this day a tale of hazelnuts & song
Oh Boann!
to have loved her differently
with more oranges and browns in the
paint box along with the fine-toothed repulsion oh! how
mirrors reflect merely the red buds in Spring along with the bliss as
blackbirds and fire are indifferent to the thrumming noise
and marbles as I am indifferent
to the copper fear tasting of decayed gardens
and a bit of blood
oh! how joy looks so far away from the jacquard window this morning oh! how
i long for sleep sleep sleep amongst cats and rain
oh! how
to have love her differently
with more oranges and browns would have allowed me to hate her
differently too
rain rings drums ridiculously against the roof as distant thunder rumbles
merely midnight or closer to morning?
awake aware
muddy--muddled—some part of me remains in some dreamscape dancing
ridiculous how the rain sounds like 1962
rising
reaching for redemption
i go quietly silently so as not to walk the sleeping ones
to watch
before windows awash in exacting wet tracings of this thunderstorm
lightening backlighting birch & linden trees
so still so quiet except for rumbly rain & thunder quaking
when i was a child i would find my father quietly silently smoking--sitting with a scotch
in his white terry cloth robe
while storms brewed & boiled in the dark
ridiculous how this rain brings me back to 1962
is it merely midnight or closer to morning?
turning to glance at the time across the room
i discover it is midnight
and i return to the waiting dancing dreamscape