WHEN WINTER'S SPRING
When winter's spring
And the wallflower sprout
Has found a footing,
We will away to the rainspout
And be immersed in the cool flood,
Finding there every hardness
Of January's cold blood
Gone from every shardness,
Melted in the warm release
Of April's embrace.
18 June 2020
To a tattered-clothed monster, the city of lights looked so dim,
only stone-faced gargoyles never grimmaced at the sight of him,
everyday, with hideous cries of horror, voices rose and rang out,
it may have been his tears running down from the rainspout.
A human creature who can easily fit in with festivals of fools,
his grotesque, deformed face deemed unfit by society's rules,
while this toll reverberates within his ears, until torn apart,
a song, so beautiful, still plays from the depths of his heart.
People turn their gaze skyward to breathtaking cathedral towers,
where a lone, strong back peals the bells to pass by the hours,
a golden melody floats from the heavens to the town below,
his outward gentle nature only the gypsies and peasants know.
At night, he peacefully slumbers with a picturesque view of Paris,
for, in his dreams alone, no one could ever mock or embarrass,
wishes to dance, to taste the cuisine, in this sanctuary are hidden,
still he carries on a hope, a longing, for a freedom forbidden.
voices skating secrets across the rim of a wine glass,
breath advocating a glance. Plucking nerves like a guitar string
wind revealing the liars tongue,
never failing to encapsulate
the quiet tuck, serenades of existence
pouring solitude down a rusty rainspout
to particular seasons that shadow
a present future;
as corrupted stain glass contributes
a haunted soldered image.
We never fully realize the petals won’t wilt,
gardens remain constant
hope becoming a postal card;
parchments sealed with the adieu
real like hairline cracked sidewalks
sowed by constant sorrow.
Distribute me from your straight jacket of resents,
sanction me to feel the softness of
the salt water breeze;
a chance meeting with eyes unable to ascend
knowing that the plural form of time is indigo
you are violet.
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