A Vanilla Dove
Cypress trees like evergreen steeples
rise above rows of gravestone woes,
their shadows lie side by side like railroad ties
across writhing paths banded like snakes;
the gravel birth cords sinuous
sensing the ground seeking the sun
crossroads of life and death and rebirth;
where mortals breathe and grieve
and orchid-petal-pinions of flower-faced souls
sweep the steep edge of cornsilk skies — yet
flightless wraiths, their black-seed sins unshed,
wear phantom veins – the pulse point’s bane,
strained like garden snakes unable to shed old skins —
where cypress trees press in prayerful gesture
and slabs of granite panes, lily-graced or lichen stained,
wear the pith and pain of life-stories,
a downy feather falls.
Where mourners grasp at porous sunbeams
as if to hold a misty angel,
as if to lift a wispy veil,
as if to sense the drifty dead,
ghosts of gold slip the clasp of clawing hands…
motes of memories float in scattered sunlight
cradled —or— captured;
a strew of ashy reveries?
a slew of stippled wraiths?
Where dust and rays mingle in hazy ways
soft-bodied coos airily woo radiant fingers of God
to reach through priestly cypress forever green,
to touch upon headstones a halo glow,
to touch upon wraiths a pearly tunnel and time to go,
to drop a sun dapple where I sit
amongst the marigolds’ morning weep
and futile streams of mourners’ tears
and fertile dreams of pulpit prayers.
The autumn blood of maple trees drip titian leaves,
the crimson veins rusted
the lily and the lichen decay-dusted —
where evergreen arms calm the squall of wind,
its thrash in thrall to circular cypress boughs,
rested in the center with the storm stilled
nestled and nested in warm maternal love,
a plain dove broods a clutch of sorrows.
From the lily
adorned like a bride and scented like June
to the lichen shrunken and grayed like an old maid,
mouths twist as exhales escape with misereres;
mortals detesting destiny
and wraiths, wriggle-spined,
who pine for a pity-spark from the sun
to tame the shame and lift them like smoke from a flame.
Prayers to repair and spare
the grievers and non-breathers
drift in clear air like milk-haired thistle seeds,
collected and cozied ‘pon plumes of a cooing courier,
their deliverance ensured from stratum to stratus —
where mothering skies plush with nimbus wombs
bear baptism rains to bathe plaintive pleas
and where wings unfurl like white-flags-of-surrender,
a pure dove ascends with ancient hymns.
Among headstones huddled in haunted peace
and bardo bones of litterfall
I linger… and long
for candles’ throng of homecoming comfort —
where granite-glazed-windows wear a blank stare,
where dust-light scrim – a specked specter
of pollen and pollution
affirm matters of life and death
I cry,
where marigolds wear the solar glow
of the rise and demise of the sun,
where a downy feather falls
below a heaven of baby’s-breath-stars
I sigh,
where cinder clouds float in negative space
mourning their loss of light – yet –
where cornsilk threads unspooled from the moon
vibrate with angels’ praise
I await
a vanilla dove.
Copyright ©
Susan Ashley
|