Sunday, December 18, 2011


when you see the garden butterfly,
know that it is me. if you see many;
then I am among them.


into the tremble of evening, cool—now in spring.
butterscotch cloud bottoms are seen,
but only peripherally. birds are chirping
singing—goodnight. goodnight.

and I float past the poppies --
on the left (the red ones having flown;
the pink ones -- just blooming.)

yes. I am floating


—how I crave the magic tree of youth
my memory marker, vibrant still
folded/ creased into some brain structure;
distributed throughout the cerebral cortex.
(specific mystery meat between my ears --
three pounds of it)

my tree! my mimosa!
my beautiful mimosa.

sometimes they call you Persian silk --
sometimes they say you are the bastard tamarind
Always 'mimosa' to me.

magic—when you close your tender leaves at night;
sometimes during periods of rain.

your stunning pink flowers,
no petals, only tight stamens, clustered little threads,
shooting straight for the azure above. blowing gently
in nighttime breezes.

did you know, mimosa, how I loved you?
did you know, mimosa, I was in awe?

How could you know?

(you would become my ultimate measure
of beauty on this Earth,
and you remain the benchmark.)

how I will forever remember your smell,
your seasonal ebb and flow!

did you know my heart was breaking, then?

did you know I didn't want to leave you?
I never wanted to go. I never wanted—to grow up.

And how I miss you, now, decades on—



"Faggot, fairy. Butt-fucker." The shattered self --
(at puberty) -- thirteen -- homosexuality
swirling 'round. a goddam windstorm ever since.

and I wanted it to go away. but how could I be saved?

I could not. I was not.

Childhood departs. It always departs.


O, mimosa; I have a garden once again. You would be proud.
So very proud of me!

Just past the poppies (I float right by -- defying gravity)
you will find a rose tree, exquisite white buds, tight, tiny knots.

the Dogwood hangs over the Japanese Maple.
hostas, ferns and lilies nearby, just beneath a towering Cedar.
(can trees have watchful eyes? yes. they can. they do.)

And there, my beloved pear tree, blossoms have become leaves,
and the tiniest pears you'll ever see are miniatures
of the fruit we'll eat this fall. Pear cobbler. Pear jam.

All these luscious trees, foliage brushing my face
as I ascend. All the evergreens, oaks, pines. And the one
tree of many branches (I don't know its name) -- but it reminds me
of you, mimosa, though its leaves do not close and blossoms
are not pink

(but something peaceful. something rooted, cycling through life)

It is sudden, then, I see the gloaming above has become inky dark.
the leaves are now vibrating, breezily, as I spy the Moon above.

Only at that very moment is it clear—I'm not floating.
I'm not floating at all. I am only walking in the moonlight.

Just a walk in the garden. A cool spring night.

You cross my mind.

And I am safe.