117. Il fiore della gioventù

Frost melts in the morning sun:
it is beginning and the
end.

Everything is just as always,
and it will be, evermore;

On the final days,
when silence looms more present on the distant fields,
there does not seem to be enough
to count the branches and their
geometry

the blades of grass
or their migrant residents

there was only time for so much
before the moment is lost and
replaced, cycling
nowhere and
evermore.

114. Souvenirs

Lascivious poppies,
lusty in the sombre fields:
spill their irony in the
autumn frost,
shades of shameful
red –

Long have I envied their
reckless belligerence,
perching on some foreign shore,
immune to guilt, regret,
and melancholy:

No – guiltless in their wild
beauty,
trampled, laid to rest beside their
human brethren, forever bear the
burdens of their
art –

Fatal beauty
grows across the silenced fields;
echoes resonate between the
rustling stems,
silent in eternal
grief,
gazing on the frozen
graves:

Curious, unknowing,
woebegone:
cast in strange and
lasting
penance –

Generations strive to
recollect,
remember;
generations strive to
lose and
forget.

104. Alcina’s picnic

Crows are eating in the backyard,
congregating under the shady
trees:

Dark and plotting, hunched over in the
shadows,
whispering…

Reflecting on a former mortal
existence,
bemoaning the trappings of
enchantment.

Chatter subsides to feeding,
mechanic bobs
puncture the sheltered
earth:

Noontime ends, and all the
inmates part,
save the stragglers, digging
past the noon.

Even these few gluttonous
ones depart,
and there are only worms
and yellow butterflies,
and all the other innumerable
insects, left climbing on
the windswept
grass.

46. Houseplant

I am watering you enough,
I think.
But you keep dying -
your leaves are crispy
and golden,
falling to the
ground.

You are unhappy here.
I play you Bach,
but I don't think you like it.
People say
it will help you
grow.

Is it too much sun?

I rotate you,
by degrees
everyday,
hoping some slant of light
will eventually feed you right.

Do you think
I like watching you die?
I am suffering too:
you are,
day in, day out,
reminding me
of our failed relationship,
of our vernal hopes.
Houseplant,
please live.

42. O magnum mysterium

Spin fragrantly
in sweet oblivion:
the dancers blush
amidst the swirling bees -

In clearest day,
the lilting petals judge,
unseeing leaves
incapable to say;

Naive, demure,
assent to every whim
so pliantly,
the next the merrier:

Such faces mute
in unrequited bliss,
their secret art
an enigmatic tune -

My feeble wiles
to such a riddle fail:
Their silence is
a stronger stuff than smiles.

34. Amor platonicus

"Spring is Officially Here" by Hazel Berger

Could stand here, ages,
praising such beauty:
hair spun of gold,
eyes carved of lapis
lazuli;
wasting away,
immortalizing you into
posterity.

But you know this –

you are not
like a wildflower,

desperately beautiful,
basking in sun-charms,
unaware of
how lovely you are.

We pick flowers,
letting them die at our hands,
withering for our possessive admiration.
Instead, everywhere you go
I die a little
knowing it must just be:
this –

Georgia Wildflower by Hazel Berger

17. Tiger Lillies

Orange Tiger Lilies by Marilyn

You are the most resilient flower,

Rising before the others and
Retiring late,
Model employee of the
Emerald fields.

Nearly as tall as the fence,
Slicing the wind with astringent orange -
Parodies of Renaissance virgins
With hoods of modest luridness.

Lascivious yet benign,
Sailing the low-lying zephyrs,
I do not know the
Suitors you attract.

What lucky gentlebee shall
Peek between these coy petticoats,
Painting brighter vermilion
On your sun-baked
Cheeks?