August 21, 2012

poem 278 of a poem a day for 2012

bending late August leaning into you

tippled with the bluest sky
raking cold fingers of wind
through pooled dew and rain
on the grasses
seed heading themselves
in a frenzy of wheated fireworks
before the dormancies
of the northern forests
slow carves gravity into time
into the tucked beaks of birds
and the sway rhythm tannins
from the fallen maple leaves
curling brown eventually
into dust that feeds
the tendril dreams of grow
from their gold and rust
to red and orange bleeds

this morning knows
this inexorable crawl
even in the metal lament
of the cicada
that surely says it is still Summer
but the green things know
their clocks are all angles
and the Sun is beginning
to cut into our eyes
and not quite reach
the tops of the sky again
as every shadow
stays a little longer
like the pin-hole cameras
inside our memory
where the silhouettes
of every desire
start to form
in the bodies
of light leaning
we begin fires
to keep us warm
and we begin to hurry
like those grasses
collecting our heavy
with our heads
full of hopes that seed
the dark fertility
of Winter’s womb
about to begin

Dionysus is calling for every glass
to be filled with want
to feast on Summer laid out
on the table as we are able
to gather ourselves
to be sated with how sweet She is
in savored sips and passed glances
that catch the turned corners
of a smile as the hearths begin
to glow and know
the kitchen is as good
as the bedroom might
be to feed ourselves
with how we stain
each other
just right


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