in solarium

 

let’s say we never left

                      the swimming month, or it, us.

I lend flowers

                      to the pine     

                 the sun in kind with a library.

 

         there is more. that green-

and-lily park

       with mirror in hand and

the alpine in the air.  

                    in solaria               build a home,

 

bed in an apple.

      candle in our head

                        show me something generous

with honeysuckle

                  the pedicel

delivering a wooden sweetness

 

stream blading the sun-shine.

    from our sun-room

I observe your obscurity

taking a flower, what flower,     

from a tree.

        

my eyes on our back

looking back at me

          bulb-jars empty save

a species of light

I cup.

the burr of burn

 

the lambent candle makes

the flame more receptive

               than the weather vane,

                       the green torch

                potted in our bedroom

  quiet.

 there is no weather indoors.

 


 

field poem #1

 

the pond we patience                         

like a heliotrope

is as glassine---akin

to a greenhouse---

as the greeny gooseberry

examined by the light

through a lope of water

levying the sun

and still I am glad for

the shapelessness levitant

 

in you in whom

I try

to learn the wilderness

with a mild-eyed adaptation

I distinguish

like someone asleep

in an apple reawakening

to spring forth from the garden wall,

the honeysuckle parabol

 


 

the blind beekeeper

 

in the ringing copper kiln

a million grazing finger-tips

and husks and husks of paper shells

of seedpods hotly clattering

 

much is revealed to rescue the heart

that visionary apparatus. in colonies

mellifluous she bends with us

to gladful loam

 

where a nimbus her vesper of lespedeza makes

the cosmos vivid, between the folds

of sun-crowned clover a spun

gold spear, a clever goldenrod

 

of cotton beaming frothed by blond

winging droplets, livid glyphs

that live inside a hollow and inconstant vessel,

a wine-blue cigar box full of amethyst

 

wherein shadows configure. the clutch

of whispering prisms and valves

bend the light in figure eights and

glisten with resinous propolis. as you

 

in this rain-dappled,

wind-trodden garden

grip something earthen, iron, cold,

a bluish token to decant

 

the ambery seep you covet,

she holds, reflecting across chambers

the pulp in your eyes

in the palm of her hand


 

field poem #2

 

take the light

like someone who has just begun

 

to watch the flowers

in their finest attenuations

 

no more mild-eyed

than the wild dogwood

 

or the modest ingenuity

of mustard seed

 

you who are handsome, always

proving me wrong  

 

in air instrument

enjoining the path

 

skirted in California poppy

you who are someone

 

on a green sheath

to the root

 

I sparse, sprawling

in parks

 


ecologue

 

I follow the echinacea

                     posed in still-life, hung

above the bed

                     and wound in twine;

 

I consider the tea-flowers' color array,

                    their blessing of sequence, strung

from root to pithy bulb

 

to tip of parchment paper petal.

      those strivening earthward shoots

                    of bounded time make of you

an ecologue

 

of extinct creatures, dried wildflowers

     the potted dracaena in technicolor,

 

the shape in the mouth of a crystal bell jar

                haunted by the sound it made,

               a painted illustration of a family

of hawk moths.

     


field poem #3

 

in the summer i am keen

to document

the wingéd folk

that lope & shuttlecock

atwixt the firs

and thusly

I can paw

my notes

and gather

up their

minted clockworks---      

 

but this wonder

 is a meagerness, reposing

my enjoinment

in their scarp

of living knowledge

undisposed to

flight or fancy

---some such lark---

 

when suddenly

a rose arose!