In those moments
That are aberrant,
Yet peerless
And stellar,
A timeless breeze
Will move
Into an abrupt
Freeze of time.
Just as to see
The matchless,
Carved and polished
On ancients’ marble white,
Is to join and grasp
That wisdom’s murmur
Of something eternal
In the long dead
Sculptor’s mind.
Amid April’s colored breaths,
A Japanese carp’s silhouette
Makes its winding way
Through the water shades—
Gold-striped blades of flame
Carving the glass tip
Of the pond’s
Redeeming silence—
Passerby sealed
With marks of loneliness
Are afraid to violate
The sanctity of each
Other’s pristine views,
With lines unbroken—
Through flowerless winter
Southern camellias
Survived in bloom,
Enduring to welcome
Spring first warmer days—
Spanish moss beards
Endear naked oaks
And swing off long leave pines
While on the ground
Azaleas bursted
Into wakeful dreams
But I find the shady pink
To be their Queen—
Inland from the ocean
A wall of clouds
Glides away—
Gathering
Underneath
The grain of rain,
The sunset dust
Has begun to turn
The air of the hour
Into a piece of art—
As blooming pines
Took one by one
A different,
Deeper breath.
From Greeks
women still
draw pose,
clue,
heart—
fair enough,
once
art stood
fine,
not crude—
no dress
rivaled
nudes’
forms,
frozen
in stone,
hoisted
at agoras,
stoas,
guiding
strays
back
home.
No one knows
how gods see
or women
sense
what’s behind—
a glance
beyond their eyes,
as if we’re
mere flesh
and feel.
Yet humans
swear
gods savor
opaque scents
better than experts,
relishing
libations
while we,
blind to gods,
dim to women,
know less still—
yet never doubt
how to honor
or please
either,
rushing
with gifts,
buying grace,
treating
our soul’s flame—
celestial bloom—
as a flick,
a puff,
light smoke,
when beneath
its fragrance
dogs and cats
could scribe
tomes.
