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Split Ends
Her hair, blonde, is twisted in the wind.
The whipping strands are the colors
of the shinning cropland
by which she is standing. She is alone
by this golden feed that is bounteous; wholesome as breast milk, as youth.
Her young face is turned away,
though her face is radiant like the Sun,
her tresses the flames..
(Perhaps her locks are more like the hue
of the gold sought by the pioneers of the 1800's Gold Rush. Then again, no..)
Her face has freckles that are sorrel-dusky
sun-spots as the star roasts the "spires"
of the semolina(wheat).
The schoolgirl is poised,
the saffron spelt(wheat) is erect
under the royalty of the thermic Summer
empyrean(sky)-wherein a solitary cloud
is a blossom, full of grace,
yet a cloud is never delicate like the flower-
and the girl's tale is morbid..
as is the cancer caused by the sunshine.
The future Harvest is burned as the Sun
kills the land..the young lady
reaps an unquenchable lust 'til the cessation
of zoetic puissance.
Yet the flowerly nebula
becomes a cloudburst..
the sunlight shimmers;
her cilium(hair)
metamorphoses into gilt lavaliere(jewelry)-
a gleaming tiara.
And the ignited pedicle(stalks)
bend as the rain-drops sparkle. And yet
a maiden crown of light-
her fair-haired halo-travails a genesis,
within which the roots of the Earth
glaciate,
within which her strameneous mane
becomes like straw, easily snapped;
and is now shivery split ends.
'
Copyright ©
Jennifer Cahill
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