the air this morning smells blue it is pure and clear like the sea twisted this way and that by faraway airs
robins on the grass a foghorn out of order toots in clear sun
cirrus streaks flutter ragged flags over eastern islands (nothing but water from here to Spain )
lilies not yet but almost blooming their lily blues scent slides into yellow and blue day
blues day yellow with birdsong with orange light with robin breast with newly stacked wood (oh we are so proud so timely so neatly done before the mud comes)
meanwhile on the porch paint is peeling revealing a previous owner’s bad taste in gold tones and browns
mown grass dries in yellow drifts on the lawn pale scent of hay tumbles what is poetry for if not to notice things?
how I’d like to be able to write the sparrow’s song the swallow’s arc and chatter its looping flight the distant echo of birdsong in the acres of forest hills behind us
wind blows the hollowed corpse of a fly across the floorboards
and even this is beautiful somehow an insect again airborne after death
we could wish for fates equally fine (for postmortem elevation or at least an observing eye)
funereal screel of a rusty pulley dumps a lobsterman’s catch onto the dock a dirge a moan a pitiable squeal blue habitat orange crustacean red death
nothing ever stays the--
even the dead transformed
Image
Garden flowers by Elisabeth Bigras
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