Morning Sonnet
The news this morning was something new
Greece has a banana plantation near
Mount Olympus, and they are yellower and
bigger than bananas from Greenland
A British surgeon pleaded guilty to cutting
off his legs to satisfy a sexual need
Try as I might, I struggle to understand how
The removal of legs can be sexually necessary
On Thursday next week, they are removing
a growth on my left side, can the surgeons
be trusted to find and remove the cyst
A hawk, moments after dawn,
circling.
Somewhere,
somewhere at the edge of near;
a somewhere known to the pessimistic
as far,
as there,
as not,
not
Here.
Not near.
Occasionally, a flashed shadow
over the sun-bleached apricot sky.
Just to the West.
Where the yellower light spills now
over the half-new roof and well-appointed chimney
of farm/field/stone.
Into the valley of clinging green
and the stone wall edge of the Farm
where the trees have one and all
forgot the late date.
They’ve
steadfastly, triumphantly, unarguably
argued for their summer-earned greens.
The moon is so high as to be unknown.
There above the maple.
There above the shred-ragged, yellowing
banana leaves -
the makeshift windvane of wavily oversea kelp.
Unknown
to the crook of neck,
to the poor sleepers,
to the cheap pillow resters.
It is such a slight sliver
that
it gives a cool shiver
to my flesh.
The momentary thought of,
a splinter of wood getting under skin.
The slight sharp sliver of dim silver moon
seems so sharp as to
threaten to deflate the dim blue,
the pale blue
October sky.
See the thick rain falling from the invisible clouds,
lose yourself in its rhythmical and pelting sounds:
open wide your palms: its a gift from Heaven...
that gift you never asked since you were born!
Hear it beating hard on your window as you sleep,
hug a soft pillow and dream of a rainbow to come;
by bright morning, each rose awakening will weep:
pick any color you think it's beautiful and awesome!
Lonely dreamer, drift on currents of scented breeze going past
wild meadows and daffodils fields yellower than spring sunshine...
while hills below greener than grass, wave like willows in a tempest;
rain slowly tampers off, showing patches of blue : its finally sunrise!
It was winter, and I ceased to remember.
Dandelions don't bloom in December.
Their presence hadn't been seen since fall,
but they were prominent, I now recall.
At spring's first touch I saw the color,
even yellower than butter.
My heart began to flutter at one's wake.
This flower was alive, not a plastic fake.
Then everywhere they seemed to appear---
the color of sun, the color of cheer!
Strikingly, they possessed every lawn,
greeting each peculiar dawn.
As summer's sun began to blare,
their distinguished color dissolved into air.
Then something curious began to settle---
a magician's act dressed each faded petal
with points as lovely as songbirds nearby,
soft and clustered as lashes of the eye.
I could make a wish, to blow them away,
but they'll leave more remnants as they stray.
They'll sprout with the sun and a soil that's wet.
Maybe I could never forget.