Monday, March 18, 2013

The Moments

The small clock ticks , its echo
falling behind, the sound's shadow
cast like a thought
after words express
a wish or need for simple things.

I hear you  unlatch the door
and call down
Please buy some almonds.

You Probably nod
and say yeah;
but I 'm tangled  in the branches
of  van Gogh’s  blossoming tree. Not just the painting
on our wall but the willfulness

of  Spring. How earth wants to ripen
in madness -- not mellow grace
after lying under tomes of snow.

Sheets bookscrapped with leaves
twigs and deer tracks that shift
to boot heels marking their way
toward  this house, this room, this woman
who listens to time --  steeped
in  the wild scent  of her imagination.


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