Seasons

Seasons are
Placed
In the land of reverie
A circlet
Of laurel
And pheasants
Winged,
Yet flightless
Are a font
Of reflection.
After mood
Ventures,
Then eventually yields
To Thanksgiving
And arrangements
Have been poured out,
The Majesty of peace
Enters in & fills
To satiety.
There is comfort in expansion

Beneath the lamp
Of Winter
Colors are easily distinguishable.
There is a
Current
Of violet
Beneath
Our tabernacle of skin
Resonant
Stretched across
The pale page
Embodied
Connected
By a vav
Directed,
Determined
As drifts,
Iced
Spires
Of origin
Knitted in
Vested code
Of fragrant, heirloom fabric
A brand
Of response
In Time’s
Design
Shaped,
Textured,
Sectioned
As cycles
In grains of wood
The package outweighs
The interior
Which remains
Housed within
The outer mould
Of Soul.

Stop the world.
Listen
To the churning
Of children
Lingering
In meadows of resplendence
An array of family
Laced
Patterned
To propagate –
And the covering
Through the prism proceeds.
Purification
By way of
Brokenness
Capped,
Settled
At the foot.

There are sleeves
In shades of grey
Dulling the valley
Of the chromed moon tureen
To its corner
Hinge.
Along the river banks
There are misplaced kindred
Spoken of
In cheerful exposition:

He found her
Upriver
On a silver September
From Essenheim to Alsace
Past Heidelberg &
The Lorelei.

His face
Was a cottage
His hair
The thatched roof
His mouth
The door
His Love
The reclaimed floor.

Surrounded by maidens
Of every sort
He told her,
“There is an ‘if’ in cliff.
Likewise,
There is a cliff in
‘If’.”

He was forever smitten
When she countered,
“Not everyone can be the Orchid, the Star Gazer,
The Iris
Unfurled.
Someone has to be the Gladiola,
The Baby’s-breath,
& yet others,
The stems
Of each.”

Truth
Is an elixir.

gjh.

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