Newborn Seeds
to orbit in a merry-go-round of plants,
herbal and wanton wild on a tumbling hillside,
dews of mint freckle palms of curled leaves—
stem for stem-- translating the language of time,
of how grasses relish myrrh's fragrance
as wet hands paddle my dusky eyes
through mid-evening’s breath .
a threadbare field awaits its bridal veils
where my feet wander along
an orchard like a holy pilgrimage: foliage drifts
without blame or sense of pity,
till new sprouts linger on trunks yellowed
by the kiss of glossy clay,
as skin is to being
in a maddened desire to wake, wake
a morning flowing with midnight birds.
and dying unto the selves, how flaming in amber
these old leaves breathe of last
and bury themselves into malleable streaks
of lightened mud, part ground, part wind…
dusk sings the break of newborn morn
in a funeral and wedding
borne from such autumnal tenderness,
that being in this ethereal space rouses
both pleasure and patience within my bones…
while the world bears more seeds.
To Be Contest of Debbie Guzzi
by nette onclaud
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2013
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