this morning smells of cinnamon,
of nutmeg and nostalgia, the red
sting of striped wasps and afternoon
falling from the sky like maple
like oak, a yellow day, tasting
of lemons and the sharp songs
of sparrows, a round day, an oval
day, an egg day, the day takes shape
around me but i am an absence today
i am not here, i am not there, the day
passes brightly around this vacancy
an egg-shaped emptiness, yolkless
heartless, a finality here where there
is nothing but dreams, floods, refugees
thousands of lost children, pets, these
two wasps mating on the fountain
thinking not of drowning, no discussion
no political debate, no faceted visions
no fear of the future, only this essential
desperate and glorious gesture
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
|