No
streetlights, or moon, another obtuse
afternoon in January. All’s
well,
if well can be stretched to include weary.
I can only smell
snow, long gray blankets
that used to
outshine the sun, soiled by
passing cars...they rush to nowhere. The dog
has made a settlement with the carpet,
it lies still, as he sighs through
his dream...
where’s
he running, on sloped and narrow trails
to grand rivers, or dense woods
carpeted
with abandoned jewels from oak fingers?
He doesn’t know
Pacific waters, or
ocean-front
mansions, adorned with Spanish-
style ambiance. I read of them in
a
letter from my mother, mourning for
great lakes...what was she missing
there? Read of
jasmine, and
cattleyas, blooming between
the lines of one man’s verse. A
bittersweet
song, the solitude of flowers...lonely
fragrance. Only
rain to replace missing
notes, from
four lost seasons...no harmony,
but a singular hymn of wondering.
I
hear it in snow, reorchestrating
austere measures, new melodies, sung
here.
