Monday, March 11, 2013

MERELY SEED



MERELY SEED, as colors felt as need.  Red,

remembered rain-iced-fire-trucks; or blood,

baked brown, glanced at, seen, running dead

with fear toward or from some moving flood

of other rifled men.  Or slow infused, as blue

that tips a pen, or backs a book below blond hair

and hands.  I knew the eyes were blue, new

to holding light discovered on a page, bare,

that might suffice what whiteness claimed,

until the sudden black-stamped-death of letters

stilled its further usefulness, and chained

to words that clutter memory’s mind and fetters

chance’s fleeting opening of doors that sear

my hands, still makes me watch the winter pond

as gulls and smaller boys in disbelieving fear

that I might miss that silver, secret sound:

when quick, our single moment’s stillness wakes

the chance the instant takes to freeze and clear

itself enough to bear the cutting steel of skates,

rejecting final dreams which fallow doubt creates.

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)

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