Lilies

In the car, flying on cruise control,

on this desolate stretch between anything,

everything a dizzy blur, the rush,

the rush, a violence to the senses,

a glimpse of swift efflorescence,

I know each petal is there,

placed as it should be, precariously

riding the hump of the ditch between

vast expanses of alfalfa and asphalt,

these daylily hobos, fast, vivid saffron,

tangled with flushed morning glories,

violet clover, pale blue chicory,

the eyes of tow-headed children,

and elegant, white Queen Anne’s lace –

when you break a stem, there’s

a sharp, unexpected scent of wild carrot.

In this fugacious instant,

somehow I know, I know these lilies

want my adoration, calling me,

stamens vibrating in long throats,

quite willing to share their joy.

Why don’t I turn around,

turn off the motor and

listen for just a little while,

their troupe crooning hue at the sky?

I’ll lie alongside them in soft

wheatgrass, and together we’ll  

bide the gentler sounds of night.

Which destinations shall I neglect,

vague acquaintances or these dear chums?

When I think of them, alone, untended,

I want to acquiesce, relinquish

any passion to a high shelf

for someone much younger to find.

I can’t help this weird, bygone empathy,

doting, hoary around the fringes:

when the rain comes, cold and rigid,

will I fret over these blossoms,

lips pursed, pouting for lack of sun?

When the apprehension of winter comes,

inevitably comes in frost then ice,

will I mourn these lilies,

will I feel their dread,

will I rush to my beloved?

In the Snow

I regret neglecting

The egrets last summer

Mindlessly oblivious to

White against emerald

Viridian chartreuse

Stepping shyly in the marsh

And just yesterday

Snowing and snowing

I wish I’d spent

An afternoon peering

Through the window

(Debussy in my ears no

A Chopin Mazurka)

Blue-gray atmosphere

Obscurity on the horizon

A sky brimming with

Falling singularities more

Crystals than space between

I knew this beauty

Was infinitely transient

Considerably more pertinent

Than fabricating drudgery

My bloated memoranda

Tell me tell me

(I do not insist

A modest desire

A desperation nevertheless)

There must be a place

Where I might see

Egrets taking flight

In the snow