Look here. I’m reading. Wondering.
I know, must be a queen’s banquet. A sprawl
Of maroon tastes & aromas,
Violet textures & terrains.
Tart, like Japanese plums? I ask.
They’re the color of pumpernickel, yes?
Be still for a moment
I am weaving a poem
from the silver in your hair
to be read in whispers
between windy nights of June
between purple dawns of November.
On the other hand
I could cast a poem of coral and turquoise
to be shouted
above the rebellion of rumbling waves
or the rattling bones of Cherokee chiefs
The air is restless and the bumblebees
have forsaken their flight
waiting for the first word to be.
In the beginning was the word of love.
In the end, only this word will endure. Continue reading