What I didn't tell you

 

did I say how the snow crunched beneath those rusty runners,

the baler twine frayed in wet mittens,

how the gravel stuck to sand, but not rainwater?

did you get the musty smell of the haymow,

the mud nests of the swallows,

how my tears were pillowed in the black grey ruff of my dog,

facing north,

blurred as the shifting streaked curtains of the aurora

A linky-thing

Blue Butcher Orchid
A lovely scribble in honor of my birthday by dear Amanda Joy.

Nymphaeum

Crepe de chine flowers

Shine, then lose luster.

In wishes and dreams

We ask always for the other

And come to the pool

Misted over,

A mirror.

Feed Your Pain

You are holding it so tightly,

Trying to bleed it knuckle-dry with your fists,

Bury it in blankets and sighs,

Ashamed of your dear little pain.

But perhaps your pain has fur and teeth

And wants feeding:

Fresh walnuts and white goat brie.

Perhaps your pain bites sharp

In red rounds of radishes

Or stings keenly like vodka

In breathtaking gulps,

And only sniffs the salad

You offer it.

Perhaps your pain rises in chunking clumps,

A funicular up the slopes,

Flushed full of Bull’s Blood

And bittersweet chocolate covered marzipan.

Perhaps your pain is suffused

With tarragon

And melts so slowly over warm petit pans.

Perhaps your pain cries

High in summer trees

For fraises des bois in cream

And asks:

Darling, are you happy, or very happy?

Perhaps,           Finally,

Your pain stretches out next to you,

Trimmed green on a hillock

Of blazing white daisies

And goldenrod fringe,

And asks only      only

 for one more kiss.