Thursday, January 12, 2012

Song Eight

Angels from the realms of Glory -- departing; Godspeed.


(so deserted; the pear tree — my fruit tree. Where is the fruit?)


where is the hope?


-- the bees are gone --


-- the season having flown --


(where are my Hostas? Where are the ferns with tiny leaves?)


it is the dead of winter

barren landscape resurrected for you fifty some-odd times.

in winter, some things die!


(yes, I know.

I just needed to hear it from you.)


wind blows through the January husks

--- the wonder we see in summer ---


Fallow - now. At rest.


We find birth, again; on some raw, new time.


in that span of time. (oh, the fuzzy math)


Gloria.



-----