Pling of Spring snow's first flake,
and I'm off. Off sleep.
Call me Canary.
White is the coal that labors my lungs --
I know before the window shows.
Many useless talents make this house
of bone their bog:
perfect pitch; hearing and smell
as though bear or dog;
prescience, in dream, in wakefulness.
The snow, so lovely,
makes the old new, embracing
chain link, multi-tiered planters
with restless empty rows, last year's
stoic garden stalks, the walks.
At times, I photograph the new universe,
trying to love (the) (coal) mine enemy.
The day bathes in abominable beauty.
Snow shimmies, nigh sings, while
exhaustion expires me, a wastrel in wind.
Isn't it amazing, someone who does not see me
says. Oh yes, I gasp, shoulders like large
commas paused in pain -- resplendent, I say,
me the miner, the under, overly-mined,
picturing green, red, purple pulchritudes past.
Julie K. Shavin 3 19 10
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I know days like this. There is much meaning to this metaphorical and symbolic write that is deserving of more than a single reading; and still I probably won't understand exactly what you mean. But poetry that elicits thought is always worthwhile to me. Thanks for sharing, Juli. Love and best wishes,
Regis
fee