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| Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird, 1941 by Joan Miró |
I don't understand what she does to me
I don't understand any destiny
without her in orbit next to me
there were loaf pans
we filled with nut meats
other treasures broken open
gold yolk yoked souls, mostly
there we were
wanting to be
pimentos, see ...
filling fillers
everywhere
read holes
red tolls
cheddar béchamel
screamed
what can we tell
expressions we make
melted cheese
at the gates ...
I had become
a loam dark under
her nails
we carried pails
for worms
and water
and we put bottles of pop
in the kill to keep cold
while we worked
on working on
what we did to
stay strong
to the cause
of joy ...
when Winter breaks
its tenacious hold
upon scrabbled bound places
there emerges
a nurturing love
to grab hold of
it is in the air
in the rain
in the way
grackles, robins and wrens
scour the emerging green grasses
for seeds that Persephone passes
having wombed wearing
every human's outer shell
a Winter in Hell
is warmer and healthier
than you know ...
what is it
you declare
as being needed
when a day unfurls
singing sweetly
a lover,
another reason
to press your lips
against hers ...
morning stretches out
a lazy dog laconacy
fog wrapped early wondrous
dark to grey light
giving way
southerlies bunted
yellow Sun
blue sky day ...
I hear the neighbors mill about
early on this Saturday
I distill myself further
selfishly nostalgic
with enough coffee to make an elephant
want to break dance ...
and as so often happens
I wandered upon a thought
intersecting with a friend
and danced a begin, myself
thinking about cartoons
and big ol' bowls of cereal
and how for that one special
Saturday a month
when the cartoons ended
religious programming
and early info-mercials
gave way to creature features
or kung fu double shots
and those were
and the days
we would wing
we were there
pining for glory
and it to be
forever a Saturday
morning in Spring ...
EJR ©
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