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| I'm posting this again because Timm's flowers speak so durably. |
Cool and windy this morning,
deep into late-of-year dark,
a harrow which hollows the bones
of the oaks knocking in the breeze.
How is it that my brother’s
flowers burn on here,
flickering at the crown
of their halcyon tapers,
writing papery fragrances
like love poems to the dark?
Luxurious, lurid, dreamy, wild,
their wide-eyed astonishments
fix his gaze right here
where the usual unfolds,
one cat curled in my lap,
the other sleeping on a blanket on the couch,
the hour rowing toward dawn
and me singing loud and happy
of him because of the flowers
he found and framed like
a window onto the dancing world
pirouetting in stillness,
petalling forever a smile
which is his and mine now,
the cats’ and the morning’s too,
the world’s long rapture
unfurling him again
full-blossomed back to God.
deep into late-of-year dark,
a harrow which hollows the bones
of the oaks knocking in the breeze.
How is it that my brother’s
flowers burn on here,
flickering at the crown
of their halcyon tapers,
writing papery fragrances
like love poems to the dark?
Luxurious, lurid, dreamy, wild,
their wide-eyed astonishments
fix his gaze right here
where the usual unfolds,
one cat curled in my lap,
the other sleeping on a blanket on the couch,
the hour rowing toward dawn
and me singing loud and happy
of him because of the flowers
he found and framed like
a window onto the dancing world
pirouetting in stillness,
petalling forever a smile
which is his and mine now,
the cats’ and the morning’s too,
the world’s long rapture
unfurling him again
full-blossomed back to God.
