October 7, 2012

Inspiration by L.C. Ricardo


It could be last season’s
wind blew in –
something – a scrap
of shivering cyan, a porcelain baby
sigh, or a gossamer
word, lacquered
and yellow.  By chance
(or Verdandi’s becoming?)
it catches
in the fertile
mind, dormant-lying
for days, calendars even, nestling,
embryonic, in nutrient-rich blood –
‘til one day, unnoticed, puts forth
a tender, transparent shoot.

I awake in summer morning,
ears tingling, my pillow
a magic garden; curling tendrils finger
my brain, green clovers tremble and sprout
from my lips.

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