no more clapboard storehouse

seasons merchant brings the harvest

flesh ripened berries and firm apples

john deere’s wander fields

barns fill with crop,

barricades still out against winter

last flush of heat clinging on

birds on the cusp of migration

still hold a note in song,

and i face my execution

she had wanted me for years

now i was disposable,

unable to plow fields

and seed a decent crop

inverted hearts adorn the page,

and i find the porch

for sleeping some more,

i wish the merchant did not

expect so much,

being a simple man

i was now to be abandoned

she could make her heart autonomous

it had to turn inside

beneath her maiden outlines

no flesh expanded as she expected,

evicted to the car

its vinyl bench with no pillow

woke one morning and drove

leaving her and her field

to be sown by another

in spring

electric seasonal analysis

in open eyed sleep

those bridges have no span

as night follows the curve

spreading darkness

and moons quarter glow,

fox on bed of rotting

fall leaves unblinking

wanting for a lonely prey,

whales ceaseless extend

range across oceans

that have many liquid paths,

and the infant

at the bars of it’s cot

red eye tired

holding on waiting

with some trepidation

as scissors of day cut slits

letting light seep through,

new light new day

streams winter refreshed

grass becomes unbowed

no longer submissive,

it smells different

under blanket of darkness

a transformation

of renewal

of procreation

the urge to replace winter fallen,

infant releases bars

sitting back

it’s face acknowledges

what this morning

has brought

Winter Mocked

from silken intervals of flesh

parting inevitable,

a vagrant blossom falls

upon a dusted road

the pink of a dying star

upon clad earth

brings no consolation

to icicles hung over

shallow grave,

filling the path to April

free winds follow

a creeping slope and

linger there,

can we remember the shade

and tulip bloom

cautious burning of butterfly

wing,

storms come in colored coats

indifferent to yesterday

pleasure not yet spoiled,

long fingers spread

over frozen labyrinths

iced buds squoze upon

the branches,

waxwing bows it’s head

brought by music

of a new chorus

winter will not be forgotten

Spring Crocus

 

 

Words by Chris Lawrence Photograph by Karen Lawrence http://karenlawrencephotography.wordpress.com/