Friday, August 28, 2015

peaches











three peaches sit upon the dining room table
waiting for something ....
four & twenty blackbirds?
roasted to freeze -- a winter's secret
a peach crisp?
i heard recently that a true poet does not use images, photographs, pictures... art
that seems vapid somehow
damn, i am not a poet
as if i could write without fingers
or
the sound of this south-east breeze
to lay down words bereft of what it was that lead me here
here here here
i think i'll settle on the crisp
the birds won't settle down
no
three peaches sit upon the dining room table
tenderness
waits
      for
          something ....
for a landing
a invitation
a room with a view of our wabi-sabi
oven warming to 350
clouds obscure the sun, as does oregon's smoke
can you smell them from there?
the peaches, not the smoke from fires burn
sweetness rising
to
blue jay's summer passing
ripe naps with 100 year old quilts wrapping
time & traffic pressing in from windows dusty with choice
three peaches sit upon the dining room table
and
i still feel the same




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