Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Snapshot 29 June 02005

I dream of children I have known, women
now; fickle, graceful, demanding. A stranger
consoles me. This house is encased in fog.

It is like a shell, this house. It encloses me
from winter. Summer washes through like
water, waves of scent and passing. Science

tells me my mind is made other than yours.
Set us the same destination and we will arrive
at the same moment, but travel separate roads.

This must be, then, why I travel alone. West
of the divide they forecast showers, morning
and scattered, with evening thunderstorms

and fireworks, from which Sierra, an aging
Great Pyrenees, ran last night and wanders
without collar or tags. The wild dark lilies bow

down of their own heaviness. Aphids attack
the honeysuckle; it will not bloom. Humming-
birds make do with clematis and columbine.

The parakeets chatter and complain. I have
left them to each other for weeks, and now
they greet me, these hands that bring millet

and water, fruit and seed, with a great fluttering
of fear, threat, and refusal. When I withdraw
they stretch out wide their blue and white wings.

2 comments:

Michael Parker said...

very nice.

arewestillmarried said...

i was at first disoriented by the rhythms and scattered alliteration in this poem, but i quickly fell into the lull.

the last line left me stunned--the image, i imagined vividly, their wings unfolding and as quickly, an ending.

everything is moving at different speeds in this poem, but it works, like the different parts of a great ship which together propel it.