Nasturtium

Walking past their abundant carelessness

which crawls weed-like in cresses of colour

an ignorance of glance caught me stumbling

when a single bloom fell upon my path,

whose sheen and shape sat in my palm

until I pressed it well to keep it safe.

Their lineage of name sought and found

I thank our botantist Carl Linneaus

for imagining what I had not imagination

to see.

 

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Midnight’s day

A midnight stream draws birds to drink,

a moon-sun which rises to bathe their wings

and quench their thirst from the heat of  day.

Lamps light cicada turf, faint signs of a chorale

to last all summer as night forgets to nap.

My chorister flutes away, a voice echoing

into the shining coves of sleeping eaves.

 

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Potted

a yellow basket of loose strife overlooks the ivy and ficus

with abundant breadth and good grace, a water bog

of a plant I’m told. I’m potted in my own way,

replenished by tough tissues of petal-weave

hardy enough to last. They loop around

my meadowpatch,  catching my stagnant

thought-pool where reflections hardly stir.

 

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Heat Quiet

The birds have gone and the air sizzles

with quiet, a vacuum turning stone

to putty and leaves to woeful rags.

 

We cower indoors except for workers

still fixing, tending, installing

our air, our artificial artiface

 

to the world, cool and temperate,

a hum of breath bringing cool.

No other sound dares poke through

 

our thoughts, cocooned as we are

from an outside through which

we cannot walk. A wind picks

 

its time randomly, intruding

on our motionless stasis.

Even the lizards hide.

 

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