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© mdlockhart 2009 |
it is not wisps of peony light filtered through
amber-hazed breezes of spring pollen
singing the night into beingnor the swollen burning glow of sun being drowned
in the hissing embrace of a tropical sea
the gasps and shudders
of requited passion
or the sigh of virginal stars
chasing the red, failing light into the west
beneath clouds cavorting in the jet stream
not wind through the pregnant sails of the forest
gloaming’s shadow over the verdant pulp of the earth’s womb
all to a percussion of crickets
and a chorus of flying hums
it is mine though
hard and glaring
cold as the heavy sky
looming and foreboding as granite walls
forced into contrasts of bawdy white and grey
weighty with ice and fertile snow
frigid, insistent
endless crease and frozen undulation
the stare of somnolent silver eyes
a forever-white, ocean deep and unforgiving
cracked and wrinkled, dry and glazed over
yes, mine, and beautiful to me
© mdlockhart 2009
