Talberg, Skjeberg
for K.D.G.H.
Summer, and a lowland fjord splits a wheat field from Southern rye.
In the rift, a pair of swans cruise the eternal sunset.
To the left, a deer bounds through waist high grain towards a church
across a field, green waters and a prescient field, where rafters never split
from the steeple. The steeple that wants to inject the sky.
A fjord is a many seeded cantaloupe, each seed a brilliant mind,
sea water befuddled by stillness, as confounded as Isaac. Saved.
Farther north, all the secrets that ever were collect
on the mountains and thistle tree cliffs as if they were snow.
And the snow melt water falls down into today is July.
Waterfalls, all the opened secrets told
in jagged songs sung by the jagged black stone
water is always the open secret that hides
in plain sight so that a waterfall is a patina of unannounced events
a neurology as perceived by another well worn rainbow over barley and wheat
all the ampersands of compassion well met on the perspicacious death beds of oats
eyes wider then buffalo herds their unadulterated seas
where the mountains consider their carpet as it rolls to be a river.
A first, a second, seventy nine misted bowing downs
the nightgowns of before nightgowns enrobing such a time
the seams of nightgowns before sewing
in daylight after daylight bright reminiscence falling
after daylight escaping from an open drawer
avalanche after avalanche filling in the blanks of uncommon elisions
where no commas or clubs lay buried
not the ghosts of Norsemen or lilies.
A Farther North, where a fjord is salt water resting,
riddled with open secrets told.
Here farther South, North of Copenhagen and the stones of Berlin
hard by an empty dock
the swans mated for life float upon its stillness,
many seeded fjord, each seed a brilliant mind.
Original Publication- Lotus Eater Magazine Issue 13, Fall 2021