WHERE TO FIND THEM
If a scent had wings–whisking past you.
Sunk in the haymows of your longing,
Beyond the last camera roll,
Stitched inside the heart’s silk repository,
Inside the sealed envelopes of this world–
Within the marrow of every summer
there ever was or will be.
INTERVAL IN LATE JUNE
The long sleep that brings no restoration,
awakens you only wanting
more. All the images
Downpours and mist like exhalations
of melancholy made visible,
a forest density of deep
green dreaming and rain.
after Paul Zimmer
I am sitting beside Shakespeare
in Gertrude Stein’s studio.
We are listening to John Keats
recite an ode.
The mullioned windows are flung open–
brightness unheard of gushes in–
one nightingale perches
on a particular beam of sun.
Just now, Emily D. glides in,
arms linked with the other Emily.
Charlotte follows close behind,
the sequel to Jane Eyre in her hands.
Renoir sets up his easel, a cigar
hanging off his lips, while Emerson and Jung
smile from the settee.
Johannes and Clare settle close
on the silk-draped piano bench,
their fingers nearly touching.
Outside, Satchmo and Dizzy
are warming up in the gazebo.
Mozart chats on the lawn with Friday Kahlo.
Just now, Monet arrives
offering a bouquet of water lilies splashed
with water and light–a gift from our Hostess
who is everywhere
LIVING IN THE MOMENT THAT IS WINTER
An old woman I know
tells me she loves the coldest winter–
she braces up against it,
forces her strength upon it.
She says she knows more of herself
of each gripped moment–
dared to rise and spread and more fiercely burn.
Arcs of clarity, slim streams
plashing into the long ponds–
aquamarine flashing in my sight,
sun melding with stone.
I could stay for hours, or forever
allowing the drowse to catch on,
float me along endless
rivulets of water dreams.