I know where I put them
that small pile of lovely
underthings
in the back of a drawer
Stuffed away
from my every day
not fit nor fitting
anymore
for an evening
or...
Can't bring myself
to throw them out
Hope is something
you just don't...
'Cause ya never know
when life might pick you up
spin ya round
where it left off
so long ago--
or something like...
that
But anyway--
I came across them
...on that first
truly warm day of spring
splayed across the mountains
of New York on my way back to PA
Driving through those
Scalloped edges not quite yellow
shy of green
Lace in layers
close to shedding heaven
or from storm's
oblique winds shredding
that sheen on the foothills
from the humid cool
of earlier that day
Spring knows
right
where she put them
Spring knows exactly what to do
with golden light
...and songs'...
preposterous possibilities
of bloom
Frothy silver
creeps amid the white
reflecting light
in every threaded islet
between the mountains' stream
of silk voile
sheer
and overlain mauve and pink
Those French knots and ribbons
thrill the edges of the road
reaching through the heated veil
longing for the gauzy air
Dogwood hands
sooth the swelling
clouds
above—so pleading—
Please...
to touch that dark
of naked woods
below
...where I left them
...apparently
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
I know where I put them
that small pile of lovely
underthings
in the back of a drawer
Stuffed away
from my every day
not fit nor fitting
anymore
for an evening
or...
Can't bring myself
to throw them out
Hope is something
you just don't...
'Cause ya never know
when life might pick you up
spin ya round
where it left off
so long ago--
or something like...
that
But anyway--
I came across them
...on that first
truly warm day of spring
splayed across the mountains
of New York on my way back to PA
Driving through those
Scalloped edges not quite yellow
shy of green
Lace in layers
close to shedding heaven
or from storm's
oblique winds shredding
that sheen on the foothills
from the humid cool
of earlier that day
Spring knows
right
where she put them
Spring knows exactly what to do
with golden light
...and songs'...
preposterous possibilities
of bloom
Frothy silver
creeps amid the white
reflecting light
in every threaded islet
between the mountains' stream
of silk voile
sheer
and overlain mauve and pink
Those French knots and ribbons
thrill the edges of the road
reaching through the heated veil
longing for the gauzy air
Dogwood hands
sooth the swelling
clouds
above—so pleading—
Please...
to touch that dark
of naked woods
below
...where I left them
...apparently
A year since I wrote this...another one. I was thinking about this poem and couldn't find it here. Concealing its death in its buds. Spring is always gone before it comes