Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Indian Plum

Rising from the stark days
in the sleeping woods
the mint green leaves
emerge like wings
between the eclipse of winter
and the teasing spring

Squeeze the soft down
between fingers,
inhale the essence
like honey from a spoon,
bow before the nodding flowers
too small to cherish in a vase,
purity and white

Know the sanity of sunlit moods
and the melody of wrens
praising the swell of life
and the sacrament of purpose
that fills the empty spaces

Hear the lyrics of your sadness
like voices from a stream,
lean to the feral gardens
and to the stories
unfolding in wedded rhymes,
awaken and be pleased

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