Years
She thought of years, within a maluable
frame, but a body, pulled out of orbit.
Yet her senses are its captive.
"How"? that's the question they, the young,
ask themselves..or someone else.
I am asked, "Why"? It is a theivery, a feat
of taking of what is perpetual,
until the flesh is consumed by decay.
Until the bones sprout into the tree
as dark as dusk, though sometimes a web
is woven amongst its limbs, and in the rain,
next to a streetlamp, the web sparkles.
Their entwined roots grasp Fertility.
They may be planted. Or cut, burned.
"Why" are there midnight songs? Or the Lakes
created by the rain, over eons. These glassy
bodies may have a beach, a mowed lawn,
or a deep wilderness that can betray,
as you become lost. But her shores..
are more colorful than Autumn leaves,
as rich as Spring's BLOOM-a pastel sketch-
CHARMING, and a Summer garden.
Thus, a Winter Spectre will beckon:
a lady. She will come, be a perfumed
whisper in a funeral. The heavens
will be alien skies- cruer tinctures,
or the many tints of the rose;
or a star's light dimmed by seven planets
that have the nights, days cut into halves.
And perhaps a planet will come too close.
January 23, 2021
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2021
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