SEX IN THE ENGLISH GARDEN
Light, feathery Astilbe
Sways gently in the breeze,
Afraid she always will be
Faint fluff beneath the trees
Concealing dear Sweet William,
Who rings each foxglove’s bell
Mid coreopsis ruffles,
White lily, like a ...
Some days in August there’s a summer hum
Of distant outboard motors, or a plane
Relentlessly pursuing a puffed cloud,
Echoes of past revelers, and then some
More silent moments, full of what’s to come –
Boats on the lake sang hymns of distant hum;
Homage to warm winds, as the radiant fall
Raised up its descant, muted, almost dumb,
But yet precise. A melancholy call
In minor key, it added slant to sum
She was a child possessed with fears
Whose dreams revealed another place
Where shadowed shapes that lived in mirrors
Pursued her at a furious pace.
She ran all night and every night
And finally slept in that large room.
AN ARTIST’S DEATHFor Bryant
I’ve often thought of writing about you,
And how your voice once filled the little square
How there was very little I could do
Except go to the funeral home, just where
Each segment of the year makes painted scenes,Creating sonnets. Thin and icy greens,Translucent, stuck in frigid airHold promises, stuck in a frozen stare,And every edge that melts slips to transcendThe present, speaks in warming tones to sendPredictions ...