op.9

death.

and the depth of sky’s listening without an answer

but the heart

even collapsing

it can’t tell the ancient mountain from a lightfooted wind it was once shaped in, the spirit’s core from a porcelain of things too frail to even utter, be they a whole or smithereens

cloud, whisper, spring in lilac sepia. as if the candle’s seclusion searing a ballet of paper snowbirds into ether

above is april, she- a winter nymph with lips frozen, her hands touching the drift of dark water rivers, planting a glimpse of moonlight on the clock, haloed by streams of lanterns drifting in and up

ghost’s hands in search of a tangible home-

until the little star of gentle evening gravity captures each delicate thing happening, melting, breathing still-

the smell of wooden pencil shavings tinged with a flight of pollen’s ash, the beauty of a piano’s dissonance in solitude of dimmed alleys, dome-shaped zinnias in the morning shying a soft flock of butterflies, the paling of a distant field, the gentle waning of a verbena hour

beyond- the growth into the season’s vernal vision from a glass art of Chopin nights

and the earth is almost

alive

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2 thoughts on “op.9

  1. Again, pure magic, woven from streams from wounds; “above is april, she- a winter nymph with lips frozen, her hands touching the drift of dark water rivers” sounds divine; indeed, spring should transform the darkest crevice and a flower bloom in each note of the piano.

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