Lavender
An autumn day of honey and breezes,
when the pores of the air swell with the late year--
driving yesterday past an ordinary field of soybeans,
their leaves had aged to the yellow gleam of lemons
in the sunlight -- like the waxy sides of lemons and clean,
sharp glints under the afternoon sunlight--
wide rows ruffling in wind to the horizon
and somehow recalling the purple lavender fields
of Provence where we will walk one day.
Crows shifted nervously from the road
to the field’s edge as the car passed, honing
their small, stubborn gift for elegy on the high fence wires
and glancing toward winter, a far mirror
to be scratched by sleet and emaciated vines.
Now, as long shadows bleed from the roots of trees,
stop and think of Provence again, slowly.
.
seconds ticking killed us all a million years before the fall
Primitive Radio Gods
"Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in my Hand"
Am I alive or thoughts that drift away?
Does summer come for everyone?
Can humans do as prophets say?
And if I die before I learn to speak
Can money pay for all the days I lived awake
But half asleep?
*
What else can I say? Sometimes it's like this....
.
A review of Leonard Cirino's after yang chi & others in The Pedestal Magazine
Light Wind
after Ma Chih-yuan
Old crows on wires
in this twelfth month of the year.
Fingerlings run downstream,
branches collect on sandy banks.
Prime ministers of poverty,
my poems dream of hard labor.
It is time to retire, to become
the fragrance of snow, a light
breeze through persimmon limbs.
.
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