Flowers, that heard the news of Dews
—Emily Dickinson
Open Window:
I wake at four’s
first silvery swell
when goat’s beard feathers out
in spears of witching dreams
tiny buds jeweled with dew
licked by phantom shadows.
Said, sun! a ripened peach
(came a blush of rosy light)
dripping juice on every second
—all intent to match aflame
scribble notes from A to Z
to tease my head to hand.
Day’s-eye:
Cat’s ear and catmint
stir at six when dawn’s
bare smile arrives.
My sundial poised to wide
I spend an hour (as waste as not)
as clouds keep sauntering by.
A gust tells me to come beside
cling first is my retail
my will a shadowed slope
a pitch of cliff-side promenade
askew I write divergent lines.
Fancy:
Morning glory lit at ten
(dandelion nine).
Dress my purples
pose my gold
rush to tune my strings.
In spite of evening in their name
some primrose close at noon.
(Saw Eros foot a marigold
creased its bullion bright
felt my blossoms tremble
notched a bindweed arrow
Epic con.
let fly a supple shaft
to pierce his ransom heart
and stop him at the nonce.)
Shenanigans:
Honeysuckle’s climbing vine
twines an alpha passion
illumination’s slippery tease.
Red chickweed’s ripe foment
a recipe for roasted verbs
spiced nouns in picnic green
a comma parked, a squib of hill
an ampersand of skin to touch.
In shepherd’s weatherglass
a shock of cloud occludes
to keep a water lily white
you write between ten and two.
Just Desert:
Poppy wears her sister’s gown
only after sun stands high
her outer petals soon dispatch
to tell the proper bee
her ovule hairs point upward
better to feel old Sol
as ovum fuses pollen grains
to ink her stigma-stars.
I scatter vowels and constants
on shock white open pages
in scrawls of ink torn memos
sun a matching ball of fire
where poppy headlines spring.
Arrive some afternoon
to read the descant bloom.
Visionary:
Words like light
from orchid tongue
I mouth an eager tilt
to spit like knots or jam
those ands and buts and ors
Epic con.
lanced from sunlit hours.
Meant to frame a flower clock
circadian quarto show
but Clio never came.
Days a lily holds till dusk
when shadow blinks
his curly lashes
a scent of nocturne wafting by
as Cereus dons her crown
—starlit moonflowers ruffle
long into midnight hours.
