The Flowers
“This crooked flower, twisted yellow tortured body”
The flowers are drowning me
in overpowering harmony
and generation
a petal from a plum blossom
makes my fingers sentient
and gives them memory
flesh can’t forget
the ragged that doesn’t fit
or inhabits the hills
The cardinal’s song
becomes
becomes insistent fiddling
with words, fiddling that fills
lowly hollows with lonesome
ways that wandered. But
now I read deeply of air.
"Where does one leave off and the other begin?
My hand curled around the pen. Paper and ink.
Heavy gray clouds massing over the hills,
and the wet air. everywhere an exchange takes place.
...In the arc of existence, each being
is wholly dependent on the matrix we make."
-- Susan Griffin
Returning now as I do
the birds will always be singing.
What you think and feel
doesn't change the shape of a stone.
.