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)