Queen
of Maples
Beyond
the fence, boys ride two-wheelers round
and
around the empty street, like dolphins
making
the best of things in the aquarium downtown.
One
leaps over the handlebars.
His
friend, (or is it his brother? They look alike
now
that you’re paying attention)
swerves
at the last to avoid him.
They
sit by the side of the road eating strings
of
candy, long, red ropes they dangle downward
to
their mouths. What hungry little birds.
Somewhere
their mother waits for them
to
leave the nest, fly over hedges toward the pond,
which
has not quite frozen over. She is Queen of Maples,
regal in her feathers, fierce and fatal in her predatory flight.
Winter Rain
Let
me move on from those frozen words.
I
want to free myself from the book of time.
Whatever
that means, whatever plunges me
into
a sea of desire.
Waves
crash onto the shore
sending
sand and shells and rock
hurtling
toward the sun.
We
are all hurtling toward the sun, all of us,
ready
to be burned away.
I
read about this in a chemistry text,
or
was it a prayer inscribed on the bark
of
a wide tree that night we got lost and slept
on
feathery moss? No matter. We can do better
if
we work together as a team. That’s what the coaches say,
but
they have been gone for decades, like seaweed and the dead.
Let
me weave in wind like a flag, the final leaf stripped in winter rain.
Beaks and Wings
Bound
to the ship’s mast, he was free.
How
that song sailed around his blood,
how
lyric and melody swept
through
his nerves.
Of
course he screamed
for
the ropes to be cut, unwound,
but
he never wanted to touch those beaks and wings.
All
day his shipmates rowed,
sweat
and muscle, blisters rising
on
the most callused hands.
All
day, waxy silence,
wind
and salt air,
a
new terror, monsters wailing
like
silver girls, like softness and sleep and home.
Excellent Metaphor: 'Frozen word'
ReplyDelete