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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Moonrise On Herb Garden

Wake up
There is no butterfly

The dandelions must have their meadow

and I refill my cup from public fountains

to see myself when I have erred, open as a photograph--

a pose waiting for its meaning to be seen

in doubt as the color fades?

falling, pink as hippos in the serenity of sunlit days

before the football game, a thrill-a-minute stunner

winds down to an intercepted prayer

It’s five p.m. It’s Sunday. And there’s rain

(Like a moving sky I can’t remember where you changed)

Extrapolate what you want

Things aren’t like they ever were

Great seasons pass through a year in a day--

blossoms pulping in April gutters

sitars in the duodenum of June

bright autumns bluer than Tahitian pearls

December madness, December blues

blossoms pulping in April gutters

Moonrise over the herb garden

Wake up Here comes the butterfly.

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