an arrangement of deep crimson roses
on your light-drenched coffin...
Thorny fingers of the Rose
Clutch at tilted rotting timbers.
Wilted flowers perching pose
For attention there they linger.
Yet no jaunting love admires
Nor any bird is heard to sing -
The full maturity of Autumn
Has effaced all hues of Spring.
Once vivaciously abloom, alas,
Now melancholy stays.
Yearning eyes will wander, lost
In the Garden of Dismay.
The Love Chair
The woodworker walks the stand of camphor laurel. She knows
the trees' passion: their leaves as familiar as her hands; their
growth as tranquil as the evolution of her love.
She dreams green's rubric: trees one-and-a-half women
high; the air showered with wheatgrass-green leaves; a
branch as thick as her forearm on the ground.
Mystery guides her hands. Her fingers circle the axe's
solid handle & the blade arcs through the air. The axe's
bit, its sharp edge, reveals the white wood.