I.
Beneath the bark of March, Spring is coiled
In last years’ veins, leaves limp away
And dew, like syrup, swells in the base of the Beast.
The canopy shakes a shadow show for children
In the windy hours of bedsheets overhead,
But morning brings wonder by the eyeful.
The open wound is white, cedar scented, rain swollen,
Appealing as an apple split to face the cool blue sky.
A taste to make me head to the shed
Find a plank and saw for the fine, bawdy dust,
A cross section of a well-aged dream,
An essence we’d all like to inhabit, the joyful
Heartbeat of a rabbit, sensory of a century’s air,
Thick as lettuce texture in a spring sandwich,
The crush of punch made with hands and feet,
The verdant infatuation serves as its own station
To inflate more than ego, the hazy mind agitated
In calm, to induce the birth of a storm chase.
All the swirling sensory clouds a Hedonistic thesis,
And what desires arise from constant snacking on perception?
Just a breeze is needed to crest a moonscape moment,
A reflection in repetition, to pause, breathe and see again,
A chance to hold what might be missed.
II.
With the promise of heat lightning, the sky is worn
Like a headlamp in the descent of darkness,
A crash harsh as frost, waves in a deep cave,
The raging thunderhead beckons predators to gather
Strength in lightlessness, in somber disguise wolves prowl
To shape moods, creep and cruise through sleep, they course
As limbs and heart, set like an anvil, flicker flash, rain drops
Revealing Time as a verse, Space as a chorus, beyond
The window pane, first clap, a bolt with half a mind
To split the cruel cedar to a cavity of victimless confetti,
Releasing a resine of nectar, honeycombed caches of ants
And amber, even a hive of bare-backed bees, the tree now
Crowned by a blue headed woodpecker, ground sunk
To rot, a decay and moss monument, an illustration of Time
Or a testament to timber awaiting the tickle of limbs swung above
The waking town, noir for now, an hour before natural crime,
As night bends to droop from Gravity’s hug, at rest a rug
Tucked in branches where nests await omens and settle
Into shelter when thought is no matter of Survival, and survival
Trivial, when thought arrives to erode the sense of contentment,
Of connection, as survival resumes, what to do?
