Here Are the Flowers
The morning sun floats
from the nipple of dawn
to the nipple of the night,
a full moon carried in its
secret belly, pregnant labyrinth
of luster. Beneath it, a small wind
brushes a vibration of cornstalks,
their silk tassels blow in an alchemy of gold
breeding a low bonfire of many silences
between the forests of two sounds.
Just beyond the peonies at my feet,
the dustings of impatiens and marigolds,
neolithic stone pots spill
nameless flowers that laugh
at the shadows laid
across the low walls with
their small dances of geckos.
The whole of the hillside flames—
Here are the flowers
that burnt a sea of rain.
The wide silk of transparency
sleeps on its thickness
of green flames
burning the carpet
of moments between
the earth and clarity.
Petals distill as weightless drippings,
fluttering ash in a lavish motion,
loose fragrances of the ceiling
of air on fire. A dove calls
over rooftop crosses above
tiled sheets of wilting stone
and the grasses, nearly blue
with enigma. A distant rooster
chants of barely recalled days
as time drips its moments
into a pool
of electric time—
Here are the flowers
that burnt a sea of rain.
Original Publication- Convergence Journal, Fall, 2009