Thursday, December 29, 2016
An Early Rising
A pocket in these woods houses flowers'
trinket heads, nodding white on threads
off the path's crook, where fallen branches rot.
Like faint last snow along the gladdened moss
they're furnished with drips; like an egg cache
foot-tramp-open, yet pristine each one,
until with same bloom-time they come undone
like to melting snow. The whetted spears that strove
to have their sleeve hearts opened like bells
will persevere in laminous messes
netting the guttering trinket heads
wilting membranal sepia - stems vacating
while stories up flush other flames on theirs.
The forest run with clasp out of clasp, twig flares
over the forgotten snowdrop moment,
becomes trinketed glory all when swallows
fletch the breadth above the woods' womb meadow,
aslant with hushing heaves, dreaming,
rolling pollen from its slumber, swollen crown
tail-prong skimmed by the feeding birds
silent and deft, rye-buoyant over
the heaven of heat, grasshoppers beneath.
Spurned in their spurning, forerunners spent,
blossoms self-dying, that flower to die,
from low air spurn the month in its midst.
What's root of summer's heel, unclothed
from a bed of chastened flesh; always a waker
that's bitten upon the thrust unfurled of his own heel:
what's naked awake first words the heat, the light,
and summer, until all the spurning is finished.