Time pressing
the color of blood.
You want to scream
and arm again.
But that won't do.
You know better.
It's like leaving.
You don't want to leave either.
Leaving is not
a solution.
Nor drink.
A false dilemma.
You find another choice
and begin to cherish.
Even this minute
might shape your dreaming,
enflesh your passing wisdoms,
this enchanter by the barn.
Unbutton these precedents, yellow,
and peel back capsuled pastures
where
blue liquid sky reaches no limit.
We voice suburbs of orange, reflections
terraced a deeper red.
Green's the innocence that forks
in passing.
After so many winters,
the summer's
Sun swims these worn hands and brightens the wine-
Shouldered hills. Coming home, no more going
far, far away, I bring these memories
To a living end, one to remember.
A horseshoe tops the door
of knotty pine,
Still exiles fortune's shade. Yet home's steep climb
From the past presents some memoried signs:
Eucalyptus odors, moss-ancient oak--
Once these were lost. Now nostalgia's sired
Eyes find poppies on a hill's leafy bed.
Such roots consume me,
for they are love's yoke
Where all's remembered as strangeness desired.
After so many winters, winter's dead.
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