Sunday, November 13, 2011

Flame in Snow

for Jillian

Quiet flame,

mountain azalea,

all the little bones

of your fingers fan dear,

unhooking pale crinoline butterflies

hammocked  under old growth


Crank down that window

as you breeze through the forest

and inhale the luxury

of the least expected.

From behind plumes of lace,

the egrets which edge your face,

from the swamp of the car,

the smudge pots of then.

Now breathe in skeins

of canopied light,

your heart a phoenix,

a brass cornet,


singing high.

Even the waxwings

know who you are.


  1. so elemental, she is like a part of day, or earth itself, or time - that which holds the day to the earth, like dawn. somehow pink. could it be residue of the rose? or is it the lace? with the power to breathe life anew.


  2. This is in honor of the birthday of a dear MySpace (& now, Facebook) friend of mine who has been such a loyal reader and who leaves such elegant, deep-felt comments.
    I realized after I posted this that I had some inspiration come from "a little journey", erin. I think this is an invitation to come out of the tin box.

  3. She must be something, to inspire this, MJ. It is lusciously beautiful. Every line comes to me as erin gorgeously said. To say what I love about it would be to rewrite each line out, which I would not mind doing, and see how it feels to have these words come from my fingers.

    pale crinoline butterflies / hammocked under old growth . . !!

    When I get to "egrets" all is perfection, large and small. the smudge pots of then . .

    Oh dear, I am doing what I said I couldn't do, which is to find anything about this poem I don't adore.