Nemoralia nestled in the Hudson Valley

'Lake Nemi', 1857
George Inness

she cut paper lilies, said 
they were behind storm clouds white
and perfumed them with the moment when 
my homing pigeon parlance magic 
had worn off, she said a spell is never a guarantee  
it is nothing more or less than one wax to full 
opportunity and slight squeezing 
of what I would bargain away 
for peace, power,  
love or understanding 
how surrender could complete 
an inside of me... 

circling like ghosts 
inside time's 
great elasticity 
our concern for how 
the human soul 
chooses its bones 
is an archer 
it places pestled gypsum enamel 
colors to pour over its eggs 
and treasures to bury 
for when wish reverent Autumn
would be coming to harvest again...

there is an old farm 
in the valley 
beholden to wind 
it knows to tell us 
the same story 
over and over 
each time though 
from a different when... 

rain is exchanged ash 
children Prometheus
made from dust from mountains once 
with everyone to the sea eventually 
and back again...

consciousness is aware you wear 
its' charged particle adherents 
it bathes outer hollow piezoelectric fields
burrowing into what a heart burns with
consciousness never needs directions 
and can be greasy easy ecstasy mobs 
to aggregate aggravating masses...

the oceans and sky play a game 
rivers and lakes are couriers 
and courtesans things they remember 
things they forget
their lads and lasses 
are poets and lovers 
ribbons of oars 
and torch born tales 
of what souls can't cage...

to throw bones and die 
to read faces in scents 
to count seasons in clouds 
to climb trees above high
I chant a name 
over sandy silt 
and make ripples 
with my toes in the lake 
I swear by casting words 
with an old cup of rainbows at night 
playing music, catching chimes... 

I'm at her shore palms up 
craning my neck
praying, I suppose 
I can lick every bit 
of her ache falling 
like poplar seeds 
early March here still 
but I am dreaming of May 
through August though...

EJR ©